Knife In A Bird
by Quarter 'till Class
Summary: I didn't think I was prepared to die. Although the idea had never truly frightened me as much as was normal. I imagine my expression was tired and woeful, but my concerns were towards the darkness present and expanded by night. I knew who this was. I recognized his work, his expertise. His swift ruthlessness and clean execution. Talon x Quinn
1. Three To One

**Disclaimer: All and any ****League of Legends**** champion names belong to Riot. No OC's are included within this work, indicating that nothing is claimed or owned by the author, Quarter 'till Class. No copyright infringement is intended. Plagiarism is theft so is prohibited. Do not copy or create a reproduction of this work in any language without express written authorization of the author, Quarter 'till Class. Thank you. Please enjoy.**

_**Talon x Quinn**_

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: I admit that Talon is a hard cookie to write. If you play his champion, he's actually a smug, sadistic little ass that likes to cut things. And he laughs a great deal. Other readings and people's head-canons tell otherwise. I would appreciate some feedback to help me out in the writing process.

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**Chapter One: From Three to One**

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I would never describe it as morally righteous, but his talents were beyond commendable. The only sound was something thin and swift, the pain hardly notable before the very bitter and eternal sleep. Either that or something lasting, though still not long. Still not excruciating. But as your hands grip at your own blood, the thought and fear of death festers in your head until you finally give. The expression the victims wear strikes guilt into my soul, and my failure to protect is beyond regrettable.

They sent three of us. Scouts. Four if anyone would properly count Valor. They were young, and I was supposed to lead them, guide them...protect them. We were to venture through foreign, Noxian territory, eyeing the placement and status of opposing forces. Then turn around and warn Jarvan IV of any possible obstacles or hazards his battalion may face. This war brewed for so long, awaiting it's point of initiation. Each state preparing themselves. I had remained optimistic, though many of my colleagues had called me naive.

Three scouts. Why three? That was so many. Too many. Myself, a young man named Mozan, and a petit thing named Xana. I was told it would be training, nothing dangerous, serious, or threatening...only on-field training. Their second time in only mild danger, which was nothing compared to my initial experience beyond safety. But the very stillness of the forest had caused me discomfort, and as Valor, flying above us, let out a shriek of warning, it had been too late. We were light on our feet, though it did not mimic stillness. My footsteps were unheard, but the slight, uncontrolled fumbles of these recruits had given us away. The subtle but unnatural shift of leaves...or the crisp sound of snapping twigs.

I listened to Valor's call, but as I tensed myself, observing the area, the brief choking sobs of struggle diverted my attention. I shot towards the last sensed direction of our antagonist and bolted towards the suddenly wounded: Xana. I watched as she crumbled, knees folding and body falling gracelessly to the ground. Her hands were clawing desperately at her throat, blood pulsing and seeping from the wound, clean and brief, elegant in its length and depth. As I held her, I told her to rest in my kindest voice, and she died.

I turned to Mozan, who stood ready with his bow. When I began to speak, perhaps a warning or a retreat, the wisp of metal cutting air interrupted me. He painfully cried as several blades reached into him from the darkened corners between trees. They were quickly embedded, yanked from his chest, and pulled back as though attached to strings.

Blood followed the motion of the weaponry, his gags of horror silenced with death. All before his body even touched the floor. I could feel the horror on my face, the chill in my bones was indescribable. I shot at the threat yet again, Valor swooping downward and hiding within the upward branches. He would be my eyes as always.

I don't think I was prepared to die. Although the idea had never truly frightened me as much as was normal. I imagine my expression was tired and woeful, but my concerns were towards the darkness present and expanded by night. I knew who this was. I recognized his work, his expertise. His swift ruthlessness and clean execution.

I was enraged, but I somehow remembered to be calm. Mozan's corpse lay there with a haunting stillness. Xana had a terror in her lidded eyes, and their youth reminded me of Caleb. My failure. My loss.

I waited a minute with my back against the largest three within ten feet, and initiated verbal contact.

"Talon."

I spoke easy, demanding a meeting. Demanding an explanation. Speaking in a casual tone despite my seething anger. My defeat and disappointment.

"Girl," he says. He mocks me without any humor in his voice. Though I have never recalled him to find much of anything funny, other than stabbings.

"They did nothing wrong." My voice is accusing, even as I lower my crossbow. It beckons him out of the shadows and causes him to stand there with a scowl. "They were young."

His expression goes unchanged. "They were Demacians."

"Then in all of our meetings, why have I yet to earn a blade to the throat?"

His scowl faded a bit, a perplex expression (from what little I could see of his face) made my stomach clench in disdain. He was considering it...

My hand wrapped around the shiv tucked at the arch of my back. Valor tells me such movements are instinctual.

"If you had killed me in all of our exchanges, then they wouldn't be dead." He attempts to instill guilt in me...and it works. I clench my teeth, balling my hands into fists, further gripping my cross bow and shiv. Tensing. I can feel the anger moving through my blood.

"Then show some respect. It's their lives for yours." My calm was slightly irked...or perhaps more than slightly. He toyed with me so frequently. He finds me amusing. Like a child's pet or doll. And I have an everlasting fascination. An unhealthy, unlawful one.

I have been told countless things. Lux claims that my fascination is vengeance. That there are reasons to believe he murdered Caleb in his youth. Jarvan states that it is the will I have to fight for Demacia, and that I am plagued with the idea of victory and justice. That I wish to eliminate a toxin of Runeterra. I simply believe he has caused me anguish and insanity. I believe he has tortured me. I believe that I need to know why.

He glances to either side, eyeing the bodies of my scouts. I could watch him think for hours. The simple expression of constant consideration forever etched upon his features, taunting those who beg for life as their throats sit beneath his blades. His arms, folded, relax to his sides, and he finally averts his attention back to me.

"I would be further hailed if I end this now. The Wings of Demacia...broken, in my hands."

A threat. I loath him. I have never hated much in this world, save war, but Talon is the only other exception. The only individual I find myself incapable of killing, be it mercy or simply because I cannot. The only petty assassin who is devoted and obsessed with a long lost Du Couteau.

"And I would save a multitude of Demacians lives if I chose to stop your aggression," I snap at him, still somehow breathing evenly.

"Then kill me." He states and I grit my teeth. I listen to the very brief rustles of Valor's wings, several yards within the trees.

"I can't." I admit it through my teeth, spiteful. I have considered him my rival since the very day I escaped with only a meager portion of my health. I had once saved his life from arrow inflicted poison, costing him his hand...but he has since mended another back on without repercussion. Or perhaps had the aid of magic to develop another. However, my strength hardly matches his own. It intimidates me, and yet I confront him as though I am Garen to Sona.

His hood conceals more of his face and he shifts his weight. His bladed arm slacks a bit more to his side. His scowl grows, and I imagine he's become impatient.

"Then why can't I kill you." I hear him mutter such a blank, monotonous question. Hardly perplexed. Hardly infatuated. Though he is the type to become obsessive over things he finds minutely interesting. Blades. Du Conteau. Murder.

He looks at me, I can tell, but I didn't know the answer. I only felt despise.

"You kill so easily-"

"Says a scout with her arrows coated in the blood of hundreds."

"I've proven myself." I hold my tongue. I go too far, though the truth seems appealing to blurt out in such a heated debate. I've considered telling him before, though I imagine my death follows the devastating truth.

"And you chastise me?" His smirk is outrageous. His voice defies his expression, thick tone seeping with insult. Humorless.

I'm done listening to him. "What are you doing here, Talon? What have they offered you now that's worth scouting enemy territory?"

"The arriving Demacian unit will have information I require...evidence." He lessens our distance, my back further digging into the bark of the tree. "The one several kliks behind you, attempting to be stealthy."

It was like a switch. My anger seethed from my breath, choking my words as I tensed. I could feel my calm dissipate.

"Valor, go!" I hear Valor's wings slap at the air, and he's off to warn Jarvan. I stare back at my opponent, every vein pulsing with fear and rage. "I'll kill you."

"You can't."

"One day we will. One day I'll have Jarvan's permission to specifically hunt _you_ down, Talon. No accidental meetings, or sneak attacks, no unprepared death. Valor's shadow will be the first thing you see, and I will be the last."

He's invasive of my personal space. His bladed arm is slack against the very quick pulse in my neck. He's too close. I'm willing to bite him should he agitate me further. But this fear is irrational and paralyzing. The treat of death sits before me in the shape of a blade. I am terrified of this monster. No matter how much I deny or conceal it. Yet I taunt him and insult him. I'm brilliant.

"And if I slice the throat of the heir to the throne? Make all of _"Jarvan's"_ experience and accomplishments worth nothing, would you come find me despite superior authority?" He chuckles at me. He finds humor in me...my responses. Mocks me. My threats are meager and hold no actuality in his eyes. And I often wonder, after our many tiffs and conversations, if I took them seriously myself.

It was odd...every single time we would meet. He'd disappear on me. Leave without injuring me or mentally scarring me. Without devastating my ability whatsoever. I knew I would die against him. I cannot kill him alone and directly. His skills and strength outweigh my own. But the question remains: why has he never once attempted to kill me?

Is it because I had once saved his life? Even at the cost of a hand? Even so, that is only returned once. Not several times over.

I think of Jarvan, suddenly. How much I adore and respect a man who's seen every horror from Ionia to The Void. The prestige and determination that radiate from such an incredible leader astound me daily. The way he holds my cheek as a wish for protection before sending me off. The disapproval on his face as I return, wounded and starved. My anger at Talon grows. And I decide, on a whim, that the truth is necessary. My lips part and I seethe bitterness and vile intentions. I smile in admitting what made me so respected and appreciated, stating it through my teeth.

"I would put an arrow in your skull, like I did to your beloved Du Couteau."

How un-Demacian of me.

His smile vanished. Instantly. It leaves his face as though attached to a switch. I feel his hand around my neck tighten, the blade of his arm pressing further at a very slow and painful rate. His entire body tenses. His jaw is stiff suddenly, and I can smell the blood as it pours from my skin. Such a small wound on my jugular terrifies me. But I determined my fate. I stare at him, in his eyes, and await what is to come as his expression turns sour and gruesome.

I struggle to speak. His grip is too firm.

"How many battles _Talon_? How long have we played hawk and prey? I knew this entire time. And how many times did you walk away from me? Mock me and vanish, only to leave the answer you've spent years searching for."

He doesn't move, still. He maintains his hold. Frozen. Shocked for whatever reason. Staring me down and contemplating what he should do. I see the process as we go eye to eye. I see my reflection in his irises, even despite the dark. I make out his hair and face, something I've known is rare. I rasp a laugh out. The pain is lasting and numbing, and the trickle of blood running down my neck continues to grow.

"There is no evidence in the next battalion." I sound tired and hoarse. "The criminal you've wanted for so long is between your fingers."

End it. End it. I want him to end it.

His motions are swift and I anticipate the very terrifying thought of death. I apologize to my brother and my bird. I send a prayer to the creators and hold my breath. He slices my neck...and leaves the most mild and casual cuts over my throat. It was hardly painful. His arm shakes, blade piercing the surface tree out of what I assume is rage. My fingers bleed as I grip rugged bark, the smell of nature comforts as I take in shaken breaths.

He still has not killed me.

"Why?" He asks, in a tone I cannot define. I stare at his teeth, grit and tense.

"You needed to know," I say. As though I am wiser. As if I knew anything about him.

"Shut up!" He dismisses me violently with a strong wave of his arm, expression angry. Stature rigid and tense. Eyes concealed and emotions still somehow obvious.

"Kill me."

I must have trusted him. A murderer. A Noxian. Because I laid my life in his trembling, uncertain hands. I taunted him and gambled my life to satisfy my own desire to know. I asked for what I fear most, daring a criminal of beastly nature to slaughter me where I stood.

But he leaves. He is gone so quickly, and so silently. I fall to my knees. I examine the death around me, with faces of terror and open eyes. They stared at me, blaming me...despising me with what was left of their existence. The cold went unnoticed until now, crawling up my skin. The stench of blood abundant in the air. And I can hear the rugged sound of reinforcements approaching at unbelievable speeds, still a fair distance away.

I hear Valor caw, and I sit and wait.


	2. Obsession

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: Talon is still difficult to write. Working on chapter three. I'm thinking weekly updates? Please review and give opinions! Ideas are also welcomed!

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**Chapter Two: Obsession**

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I had cried once, eaten twice, and slept several nights and days prior to meeting with Jarvan IV. I had tried to rest outside of slumber, without success. I had stumbled in sheets and wrangled with pillows, tossing myself around out of self loathing and regret. I had nightmares. I fought with the physical and mental agony that came with regret. Initially, they had haunted me. Mozan and Xana; their blood soaked bodies idle and crooked. Both of them and the many I've seen fall victim to his monstrous need for death. I can't even remember half of their names.

I began to think they would haunt me eternally. But eventually, within three of my four days off, they faded from my memory. Talon replaced them. He alone plagued my mind. I saw him slaughtering in my dreams, unfazed by the destruction he caused. Stoic towards the tragedy that followed him. He held me by my throat, carrying me towards an unforeseen destination with a strength I couldn't believe. My either unconscious body or deceased carcass had been clutched by a single hand of nimble fingers and astounding grip. I could feel the tension in his joints.

This detail and realness disturbed me. Valor states it is a simple dream. Nothing like a premonition; I was in no danger. A simple haunting due to my unnecessary guilt and fear. Due to Talon's endless fascination focused on what he considered a toy. Myself.

I checked out books. Watched security footage from Piltover. Briefly scanned documents involving his strategy and reasoning. Garen provided me with military documentation. Nothing I required. So much paper with nothing on it. So much waste for so little information. His real name? Where he came from? Who he knew? Hardly anything.

I sit before Jarvan like a timid child. Hands on my knees, hunched over from mental exhaustion. I shake my head as I speak. "I couldn't stop him. I couldn't even see him."

Jarvan looks at me with sympathy from behind the desk which he so rightfully despised. Says it's constricting and uncomfortable, but documentation is necessary. I await his decision within his supposed "office", distracted from our discussion.

"I accept the penalties." I await his ruling.

There's a dullness in his eyes. No fire or rage. A deep lack of expression. It disturbs me further. It indicates that we were losing this war.

"We cannot afford high ranking losses at this time. We have more recruits willing to take their place, Quinn." His tone is friendly but his words are distant. I turn away and glance towards his window. I didn't want to listen.

My tongue is pained to speak. I swallow several times over. I'm tired. "I lost two untrained in the field. I was the only one left alive. I was incapable, and I proved myself unfit to defend."

"It is not a severe loss, Quinn." He talks as though he were selling me something. Like his common product of bravery. "They will be replaced, but they will be honored for their sacrifice in protecting Demacia's Wings."

His attempts at consolation upset me even more.

"Don't talk to me like I'm a civilian, Jarvan. Like you need to instill hope in me. I don't need your prideful orations about the will of Demacia and it's timid people." I feel words purging from my mouth, frustrated and impatient.

"Quinn."

"Don't look at me and try to find justice in unnecessary death. Don't try to make excuses for because of some mocking title."

"_Quinn_."

"I came to you as your friend, not your scout. I needed anything but that pointless facade you show your father and your people." I seethe hatred. I have never felt this angry, flustered, and belittled. I snap at him, spitting bitterness and disappointment. Things I had never before dared utter. Things I knew I would regret. "They were practically kids, Jarvan! They had no training. No experience."

"One matched your age."

"It has nothing to do with age and you know that." I admit it was a quick and defensive comment. I'm falling apart.

"What do you want me to do? Cast out one of my very best for the sake of your emotional dilemma? Force the front lines to go in blind because your morals say you need to be punished?"

"No." I don't know what I want. I have no solid idea. I don't know what to do nor where to begin. I am cornered. And I need room to fly.

"You're trained for these situations. You have to handle this. There is no bad blood on your hands, Quinn. Not yet. Be grateful." His expression is rugged and stoic. He scowls and stands to leave, posture rigid and stressed and powerful. "You have three more days in recovery due to emotional trauma. That's all we can afford to provide you. Another battalion threatens us."

He lays a solid, heavy, burdened hand on my shoulder before leaving. Poisonous thoughts are racing as fast as Valor's wings in my mind. Spite and outrage. Vengeance and regret. What was I expecting, waltzing in here? A slap to the face? Being removed from the field of battle? Aggression? Of course not. I had hoped for a temporary suspension. A way to clear my mind and expel this exhausting fear and hatred. A way to rest myself prior to returning. Clarity and peace. It takes a moment of walking expressionless before I find an outrageous solution. I've decided on what I need to do. I know what I desire and I understand, suddenly, how to redeem myself in the eyes of the many slaughtered.

In the next three days I will leave Demacia to find my target. I will travel across neutral territory and track him down. And with caution, I will kill Talon.

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I planned to sleep through the afternoon with intentions of departing when I awake at night. But I did not sleep. As I close my eyes he stares back at me from beneath his hood, threatening my very existence. I cannot recall his features. As I see him, he is inhuman. A being hidden in knives and cloaks. A monster in disguise, charismatic and cunning. He haunts me. I see him in the corner of my eye. The small creaks of wood flooring, even ruckus in other rooms crawl into my skin. He's here, I think to myself. To execute the mistake he allowed. To clean his work and reclaim his merciless reputation.

Am I obsessed?

I prepare. Dressing myself. Arming my belt with additional shivs. Another goes in my boot lining. I pack arrows and potions. I wouldn't need food. I go days without food or sleep. I'm accustomed to the lifestyle of a restless scout, and desperation can be settled by living off the land. I stare at myself in the mirror, tired and nostalgic. The cut he left on my neck is healing slowly, and the redness makes me nauseous. The light in the room is deep and low from sunset. All I have to do is wait.

I'm patient, with hands on my armored knees, awaiting nightfall. It was personal signal to leave, a time of choosing simply due to convenience. I sit in front of my window, flinching at the sway of curtains. The image of him lunging inside, impaling me with his bladed arm without hesitation or strain. It would take Talon little time and even less effort to attempt an assassination.

Even as I sit here, protected by the walls and people of Demacia, the magic and strength, I am endangered. I become more prepared, finding a state of conscious meditation as a form of preoccupation. Buy my mind keeps reeling. I tense myself and force the calm carefulness of high alert. I examine my personal room several times over. Like he's hiding in the wardrobe. As though he's taunting me with that sullen laugh.

I will not cower from him. He haunts me as though he were dead. Talon frightens me and threatens my life...but I will not tremble and sob in the presence of a man who takes joy from misery. I am strong willed and I am determined. I am capable and I am swift. I want to live, but killing him is so necessary. I cannot show weakness in such a vital mission. I cannot earn the disappointment of those I love. I truly believe that I am capable of ending this unspoken rivalry.

Valor shuffles his wings in his sleep. The noise does not disrupt or caution me. I'm so used to it. It's so familiar. And that slight ruffle somehow calms me. Like a child's snore to a mother. I stand and approach him to stroke his feathers. He deserves rest. The sun is setting.

Talon shall never kill again.

* * *

I travel by the trees, but eventually make my way back to the ground. My legs can take an increased amount of elevation and distance, but I have an unusually long way to go. The lack of company makes me paranoid, and the lack of sight raises my awareness.

Valor disagreed with my better judgement. He found Jarvan's argument sound. So while he slept, I departed.

When I return to the last place of meeting, my nausea renders me incapable. Their bodies were assuredly taken by Jarvan's battalion. And in spite of my emotions and regret...I cannot recall their names. I can hardly remember their faces. All I see is him.

I use my position as an excuse. My higher authority and long term experience. I tell myself that it's the hundreds of scouts, trainees, and soldiers among me that have clouded my facial remembrance and recognition. That anyone would have forgotten them as quickly as I have. Their blood still stains the dirt and grass. Two dark puddles that appear black against moonlight breaking through trees.

I leave it behind and pursue my objective. There is nothing else I can do.

I find clues in that clearing and more a mile or so towards Noxus.

As I venture further, the clues dissipating, it occurs to me. I've found a piece of cloth. Foot prints. Blood tracks. Unnatural disturbances that I knew he inflicted upon the nature of these woods. But it was all set up. Talon knows me. He knows I'm looking. He's playing as his own bait.

He's challenging me, and anticipates my arrival. It frightens me even more. However, I refuse to cower.

There are worse things than Talon. Creatures of the void. The undead. Soul reapers. There are things and people in this world, in Runeterra alone, that rip flesh off bone and devour the innocent. Talon is not our worst fear, but he is what haunts me. I could imagine Karthus, Rek'sai, or Thresh. I could consider so many other murderous beings. But my obsession does not cloud my judgement. He is the swiftest hand at a blade. He is deadly. As much as any of those nightmares. But he is not what I should be fearful of. I admit that much.

Even as I swiftly stalk through these trees, hunting down the man who very possibly could slit my throat, I being to wonder if I will survive this encounter. And what would that mean for Demacia? The best of her kind, gone. I'm not modest in what I do. I earned my place among the higher ranks. I earned prestige for myself and my brother. I know I am a threat. One of the best in a dying race.

I continue to pursue him. I do not intend to live through this battle, but I find myself determined. I admit I may be the slightest bit obsessed, seeing his shadow in every swiftly passing darkness between the trees. But I feel eager to find him. There's this adrenaline that pulses through me. The very cause of my brother's fascination with battle and risk. I feel it in my veins. I am ready to challenge him.


	3. Closure

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: So I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I think Sona is my new main? She kicks ass AP mid. Makes people cry. I love it.

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**Chapter Three: Closure**

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It was mid-day when I found him.

He was waiting for me, miles outside of Noxian territory. He was lounging in a tree as though disinterested, completely calm. And when I approached him, cautious and quiet, I had every intention of killing him. But he was too quick for me. He had stood and cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders to stretch out resting aches. And he made our situation a distant stand off. Lacking his usual bladed cloak, but still fitted with the usual weapons and attire.

He scares me. For years I had hardened my emotional resolve. I had trained myself to wear something of either seriousness or confidence in battle. I had contained any fear or emotion in honor of my brother, who had feared and exposed nothing of himself nor others. And Talon pushes me too far. Causes me to lose control of my own self. Taunts the years of training and learned lessons away with only a voice of intimidation.

And as I face him now, I maintain a state of calm. I swallow reflexively at the look he throws in my direction. The one he's now focusing on. The look of hatred and conflict and aggravation.

He lacks his hood. I've never seen him before. It's like seeing a legend. Some horrid myth your mother told you about to prevent bad behavior. He's normal. He looks human and average upon first glance. But I know what he is. Old, faded scars. Exhaustion in age. Darker skin than I imagined. He has the walk and posture of a calm and collected murderer. The looks of a charismatic gentleman and the words of the educated and wealthy.

I decide to open my mouth, but hesitate. The words are right but my throat trembles for reasons unknown. I speak slowly as though illiterate. "I need to stop you. In honor of those you've taken."

His eyes narrow at me; malicious and bitter, warm and dark. He could kill me so easily. He doesn't say a word.

I wish Valor was here. I long for the usual companionship that I've relied on so often. It's a security I crave and trained with. And without it, I feel naked. My emotions are more cautious than hateful. Mixed thoughts and unpleasant considerations run through my mind. He has yet to attack me, but the thick vibes of murderous intent radiated from his form in the most obvious of ways.

Still, I don't understand. I felt I hated him, but it never lasts. I feel spite instead. Fear and hesitation. I'm stuck between Bilgewater and the Shadow Isles. Seconds of silence are torturous.

He glowers at me, still patient despite the situation. He finally speaks, and I jump at the noise. "Only fools pledge life to honor."

His words don't surprise me; he trades his skills for information about Du Conteau. It would make sense that his loyalties are not towards militia or generals...or any Noxian position, really. And I question his loyalty to even himself. But many military documents stated his involvement in a Crimson Elite. Perhaps his only loyalty.

"I will bring your victims closure." I say as though I'm threatening. The more I pretend I'm capable the more I believe it.

He holds his hand to his forehead. A look of disapproval and disappointment, I assume. An expression of tiresome displeasure at my choice of words, if nothing else. His shoulders slouch forward and for a moment...he seems nearly human. He scowls in my direction and straightens his resolve. "Shame."

He throws a blade at me. I narrowly dodge it, and within less than a second he's beside it, removing the weapon from the stiff earth. What I have been waiting for ensues. It's a tough struggle that is unbalanced and constant. Back and forth between swiftness and aim, strength and wit, ability and focus. He uses his environment to his advantage and I simply bolt straight into action with the valor that Jarvan instilled within me. I take no time to survey what could benefit me in launching arrows. My methods have yet to fail me.

He uses higher ground in the trees, so I follow. I am good in high ground. I know this by experience alone. But for some reason he surpasses my level of expertise. I feel blade after blade catch at my arms, slowing me down. My cheek feels sore. My arms are weakening from blood loss. By the time the air turns cold, our battle nears the ugly and indefinite end. I am still bleeding profusely, and I can feel one of his blades stuck in my back between the spacing of my armor.

I lean against the width of a large tree, balanced on a high branch. The pain is unearthly and I squeeze my eyes shut for only a moment to find a brief or lasting relief. I have never acted so stupid or foolish; blinding myself. Within the moment I hear him beside me, taking advantage of my idiocy. I know that I've lost. And as I open my eyes, he stands before me, scowling, and lacking his usual audacity.

I only smile at him, because arrows protrude from his arms and chest. I see where I've skimmed his face and neck. I have never felt so humored. So light. I ring out the most genuine laugh, and I truly feel happy at my pointless attempts. My ability and my sloppiness. The one time I needed to be swift and accurate...I wasn't. It's funny.

He pauses. He's staring. I feel him looking at me through short, messy hair. Is he judging me? Analyzing me? Considering torturing me? My obsession has led to my untimely end, and to the hand of the man I can honestly call my rival. I disgrace all that I stand for. And in my delusion, I think it's hilarious. I laugh off my omission.

"Funny girl," he says. I can't tell if he's smiling or not. Humoring me or mocking me.

He grabs me by my neck and shoves my entires body aside. I have nothing to provide me balance or stability; I fall. I have no time to think. I have no time to react in such a swift movement and quick plummet. I twist mid air to avoid landing on the blade, and instead land on my hip from a fairly high place on rugged dirt and grass. The energy is drained from my body instantaneously. It's broken. I feel it. It's shattered. The pain renders me silent.

I have lost.

I lay a heap of blood and failure. I am ashamed and silent. I avert my gaze from his approaching walk towards the roots of a nearby tree. I lack the necessary hatred and fear. I simply accept this. I leapt into my fate without thought or consideration, blinded by my distress and grief. I can do nothing to prevent it. My humor still lingers. I catch myself gagging on a chuckle. I taste blood.

"You fought distracted," he says.

He bullshits me. His smirk somewhat appealing as I glance up, hands placing pressure on my hip. It's numb and stiff. I am pathetic and weak. I am the crumbs left behind from a once filling meal. Jarvan was right. What about Valor? Where is Valor?

I relied on Valor, and vice versa. He is a part of me. I left him behind. I removed what little chance I had by leaving him in Demacia. My foolishness astounds me.

"Pathetic," he spits the word harshly. He's right.

Talon crouches beside me, removing arrows from his flesh. The sound is foul. The smell of his blood is like metal. He sets a health potion barely out of my reach, still smirking. He's humored and entertained by our little tiff, but I realize, as he sets a careful hand on my hip, that his despise is lost. That this battle was simply to clear his aggravation. To take out his frustration. Why does he need me? Why won't he end it?

"You won't kill me..." I question myself. I am perplexed and bewildered, pained and delusional. The words are quiet and airless and I am losing myself to sleep. In and out of a dazed unconsciousness, though I don't think I've lost enough blood to push me over the edge.

I look up from the ground, watching him simply shrug off his injuries. And I find myself idle as he shifts beside me with an unchanged expression. There is no malicious intent. He lacks the familiar daringness and despise. But he changes faces for a moment, contemplating something. And before I can say anything else, he stands to leave.

"One day I will."

* * *

As I rouse I feel no pain. I recall very little from my senselessness, nor my multitude of injuries. I only remember what initially occurred. Our physical dispute among the trees, dodging and aiming. So lasting and pointless. I believe I woke once or twice, only to return to unconsciousness. I can't think of anything relevant. A migraine sets in with my excessive effort to remember. Like forgetting a word that's on the tip of your tongue.

My hip suddenly hurts. The pain is stifling and it all beings to set in. I had fallen. And where was Talon?

The battle is still somewhat vivid to me. The health potion was used. An empty bottle sits in the curve of my stomach, bone dry. I was settled where I'd landed, his blade still protruded from my back, and I was covered in foliage as a form of camouflage. Dust, rocks, and leaves coated my armor. I felt dirt in my clothes and between undergarments. My cuts are hardly healing, agitated by the land. I remove his weapon from my skin at an awkward angle. The noise of ripping flesh makes me gag.

I feel dazed and pained, barely rousing from the forest floor. It's daylight. I slept through the last of the evening and night. My spine burns between each bone and at the unhealed point of entry. My hip screams...but I lack the shattered displacements from before. I blink hard at the bits of sunlight reaching my eyes through trees and foliage. Blood cakes my eyelids, and my throat cracks as I clear it to breath.

I gasp for air, as though I'd been buried, and stand with little balance. The empty potion bottle is cushioned by grass and moss as it falls from my abdomen. He'd made me drink it? Or did I do it subconsciously? So much is running through my head. So much failure and frustration. So much pain and ache. Caleb would have defeated him. My brother would have been far more successful beyond what little I've wrong sibling died that day. The less capable one lived to disappoint her city.

I think this often, but this proof of defeat pushed me to lean against the nearest tree, and place my head in my least damaged hand.

I couldn't kill Talon. I couldn't even tire him. He pulled my arrows from his body as though they were splinters. I thought I could handle him on my own. I thought I could earn justice. Instead I had lost.

Valor would be looking for me. I stand, unbalanced and agitated by my recently healed hip, and drag myself towards Demacia.

* * *

I meet Valor halfway. He took to the skies in my absence, and spotted my struggling form using trees as leverage. As he lands he provides the necessary supplies in a pack, too smart to be flying beside me. But he cocks his head to the side, examining my condition with concern. I must look like death. Or maybe I just look dead.

Our exchange is brief. He asks if I am okay. I reassure him. His eyes are intense with curiosity, but my own expression tells him all he needs to know. He understands, and leaves it at that. His beak nudges at Talon's blade, secure in my hand. I simply show him before placing it in the pack.

I ingest three more health potions. The feel of them working through the body is something you never become comfortable with. It feels invasive. It itches in your bones. Despite my complaints, they work. I feel relief at the lack of injuries and for a moment, I actually appreciate the common use of magic. Nothing hurts. It feels good. But I know I used them too late. The first one Talon provided me was only enough to heal severe injuries, neglecting the others. The small cuts and gashes would leave scars. Heavy ones. A part of me believes this was his intention.

Valor coos at me, and I don't know what to say. I don't know how to reply. My loss is a heavy disappointment. It's useless and sad.

"I couldn't do it."

A long silent ensues. He simple ruffles his wings and stretches his neck. His expression is unchanged, and he scoffs at my disappointment.

Valor will never judge me.

As we travel back, I begin to notice a lack of Noxian forces. A lack of marching troops, idle tents, or traveling weaponry. A general lack of everything expected during a time of war and crisis. The stillness of a treeline, surrounding a common battlefield, was a haunting and uncomfortable feeling. It causes anxiety and the fear of death. Quiet is never a good noise.

We're further towards Demacia when I piece together that Noxus has yet to direct troops to battle. They are either late, and hopefully lacking, or this particular battle has been delayed due to weakening forces in both parties. It's a common complaint...too many dead to construct an army. Too few troops to properly fight. Maybe an epidemic or massive tragedy. Or perhaps this is the work of a mutual peace? Something to end this war? The thought itself was unlikely.

Even Valor shares his discontent with the unbroken silence.

Jarvan's sources had given him the date of their attack. Maybe they were wrong.

In an evening's time we approach Demacia's borders. And as I look up at the great city-state, what I've fought and bled for, I begin to wonder if I am capable enough to belong to this prideful and just civilization.


	4. Loyalty

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: Please review? I'd appreciate more constructive criticism or additions in the form of reviews. Always boosts my moral and gets me to write! Thank you!

**Chapter Four: Loyalty**

* * *

He embraces me, but I feel no enthusiasm. I lack the eagerness I usually return. I still have no idea if I love this man, or if his demeanor, status, and accomplishments have just wooed me into submission. If that royal charisma simply swayed me towards his righteous thinking.

Jarvan IV sets a massive hand on my head as though a sibling, further aggravating my headache. I was home, showered, and covered in scars. Scars that will remind me of my shortcomings. Despite my failure, he nods as though accepting. And I stare at him with nothing to say. Like a mindless child, ignorant, wrong, and humiliated.

I had previously informed him of my endeavor. I'd left a document on his desk stating my departure prior to my leave. I had to report to him upon my return. I couldn't undermine my superior more than I already had. If it had been anyone other than a Demacian hero, he'd have their citizenship revoked.

"He had me. He could have killed me." I admit that I live because of his own cockiness or mistakes. I was bleeding out, and he was over me. Watching me die. Watching me and mocking my vulnerability. Taunting me like a moron, downed and without defense.

Jarvan just watches me, sympathy etched into his brow. He embraces me again, pity leeching onto my skin. It demeans me even further. I feel like Talon had been a ghost, almost. I feel nearly haunted. Damaged by how easily he'd beaten me, criticized and laughed at me. Even with all of the arrows I had in his chest. The one I'd stuck in his shoulder. His legs. His hands. He works past pain, as though he doesn't feel it. I underestimated him.

"It was a mistake, Jarvan. Pursuing him."

"You took initiative. You fought for justice rather than drowning in your own defeat and pity. It's respectable." He seats himself behind that infamous desk he rightfully despises. I'm still in pain. I'm still struggling to stand there with a straight face. As clean and as comfortable as I am, the discomfort of my wounds still stings me.

"Thank you."

I know where he's going with his tone if praise and achievement. His charismatic smile and kind choice of words. His royal stature portrays a man of Demcian pride that shines upon congratulating a murderer for killing Noxian scum. The hypocrisy I sense reminds me of Talon's disreguard for honor. I watch Jarvan's expression falter. He's going to reprimand me despite his honest admiration in my venture. But I can't feel spite; it's his job as my superior. An attempt at a Noxian life is a risk, and a crime against both states. In peaceful times, it would be considered a deceleration of war.

"Given the current circumstances, there is no reason not to pursue a threat to active forces. However, you deliberately placed your own life in danger, and disregarded your position within this army for personal matters. It will not happen again without permanent repercussions." He sighs, but still displays himself as collected. His smile is forced, and his eyes are still...lacking.

I kept it covert. I imagine that should anyone else know of my endeavor, he'd be forced to publicly execute me, or expel me from Demacia. Yet another stressful situation I've thrown at him. Something personal to top off the chaos he faces in Valoran. I was told he'd just recently rallied and enlightened troops. Which means I'm confronted with what's left of the confident, excited leader he shows to his men. The reality of his persona has yet to recur from the stage act he uses to boost moral. However, it's more relieving than insulting. And far more uplifting than demeaning. He gestures to the chair opposite from his side of the desk, inviting me to sit as though I am important. And being where I am needed fills a bit of the loss I had endured. Whatever loss that may be.

I decline and stand. The silence that follows is uncomfortable and foreign. Not like what we'd sit through before, as friends. I'm beginning to wonder what's changed. I ask myself what is different from days ago to now. Instances after my personal dispute, and moments after I'd thought I'd been dead.

"They have yet to send troops." I say it with hesitation, recalling the barren wasteland of what was supposed to be the battlefield. His facade falls and his demeanor is serious. The hand is removed and what I accept as the truth returns with little animation.

"It's temporary. Swain sent a representative days ago. Both states are concerned with the damaging effects of magic on Runterra. Demacian and Noxian leaders came to a consensus, preventing the extreme use of magic throughout the remainder of the war." He tells me as though it were a bad thing.

"You don't believe they'll keep their word?"

His tone is even and his answer is quick."Noxians never do."

"When will the bloodshed occur?"

"Are you in any condition to fight?"

"I am."

"Good. Two days time."

"Not much of a delay."

"Noxian generals and Demacia's council want this out of the way. One longs for justice, the other craves power. This battle could be a turning point." I think about it. I considered how often the land was scorched and ruined. The deformation of Runeterra and the fall of so many landscapes. The movement of once pristine land, morphed and reformed into obscure and unstable ground.

I fold my arms and watch him roll his shoulders back. "And the extreme use of magic?"

"We abide by our word."

The second silence that we allow is tense on my end. I finally conclude that I'm no longer comfortable in his presence. But he's preoccupied with other things. His mind is wrapped around this war. He carries internal conflict, waged between his morals and responsibility. You can see the frustration and thought in his face.

"What do you need me to do?"

"You'll be first to go, flank the right outskirts of the battlefield early on. I'm sending you with Ara. Movus and his secondary will keep eyes to the left of us. Valor will fly between all parties. You will survey weaponry, ability, and numbers, then return upon completion of your task. They will track enemy movement, and continue to send updates through Valor. Return with summaries prior to enemy confrontation."

He's never ordered Valor and I to separate. Our usual dual scouting was a small kindness he's shown to us as a friend. But Valor is his own hero, and his own individual among the ranks. I imagine he'll relish in the attention, and miss very little of me. Either way, I'm prepared to battle. I miss the thrill outside of personal vendettas.

"Understood."

"This is a brief battle. But a war has never lasted this long. This could turn the tides in their favor. Noxus has disposable youths that overflow their city. Their military would be replenished by the end of the battle. We lack their numbers. A loss this large could be detrimental." He scowls, more speaking to himself than conversing with me. He's staring off, distracted.

Jarvan's fingers are laced as he leans forward on the desk, and I find it odd that his hands are bare of his armor and gloves. He has a bitterness in his eye now; not so dead and lacking as before. More hateful.

"Then why did they urge this fight? They made it sound of the utmost importance, meeting with Swain." Demacia's leaders have always distressed me. They play games and mock their opponents, so confident and full of themselves. It is only now that I begin to see the hypocrisy, laughing and throwing their soldiers into fire like reckless children. Throwing a tantrum because things are not as they desire.

"The threat of Noxian invasions," he says.

It is said that Noxus never wanted a war. Their conquests were strictly to the East of Valoran, hardly breaking West towards Demacia. They say Demacian's witnessed the inelegant lifestyle and demanded change, making threats against the citizens and political leaders. History states that Demacia, for justice and strength, declared war on Noxus due to moral disagreements. Because what we thought was wrong had to be confirmed to our lifestyle.

And the Rune Wars sparked, leaving bloodshed and disaster to scorch the land. There was no regard to consequence. Summoners and champions ravaged the land with magic and sorcery. Catastrophe, still abundant, but less detrimental. A institution is being spoken of, one that vows to preserve Runeterra and moral beliefs. Neutral and without allegiance or favoritism. They want to call it the Institute of War.

"Quinn," he starts. "Remember, we fight for honor and for justice."

He's reassuring me. He can sense my lack of loyalty, he can see my bond with this great city fade with each death and battle. He senses it in my words. I can tell from that look he's giving me. Warning.

I only nod. And that simple action is apparently all he needs. He stands, the chair scraping the floor, and looks down on me from his massive height.

"Demacia," he salutes to me. His fist over his heart and his eyes laden with stress and hopelessness. I stand straight, sick to my stomach.

I salute him in return. "Demacia."

I turn to leave. My head is spinning. I have no focus. I question everything I've ever fought for. My faith is now in myself and myself alone. But I have no reason to fear or doubt Jarvan. He has only ever shown me kindness and appreciation. He's tolerant and strong-willed. And I stood there to persecute him with indifference and paranoia.

Talon. I think of Talon. He's put this mindset in my head. The little things he says. Single statements that make me question my home with good reason. Making me question honor and loyalty by example. Both foundations of Demacia itself. I have no one to blame but myself.

"Quinn." I turn back and smile at him reassuringly.

"Jarvan." I mock him jokingly, but his expression is serious. It's strange to me.

"You placed your life in his hands. It won't happen again."


	5. Blood

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: This is a long chapter. I mean long. 5,316 words. Please review for all this effort? I'd appreciate more constructive criticism or additions in the form of reviews. Always boosts my moral and gets me to write! Thank you!

**Chapter Five: Blood**

* * *

My most recent evening had again plagued me with nightmares. I dreamt of the bodies I've witnessed on the field of battle. I again witnessed the several scouts Talon has slaughtered right beneath my nose. But I still can't recall their faces or names. This time I dozed off talking to Luxanna, and woke because of haunted thoughts and regret. Bloodied hands and limp bodies, blaming me. Looking at me with a hatred instilled upon their death. Pointing. And Talon harasses me like a ghost yet again. Staring and judging and following me. Our confrontation did nothing but worsen my guilt. My mind in constantly clouded. The little sleep I actually need was not an option anymore. I'm still falling apart.

Upon walking home I sense it. The very familiar feeling of being watched needles up my neck. My hair stands. Valor is perched upon my shoulder, wings draped over my back. I send him flying to survey the area, focusing on the dimness of alleys and the faces of passing people.

There was no suspicious activity that I could catch. He returned to me without warning or complaint, calling me paranoid. The day was cool and the streets were lacking. Clouds hung over the horizon and threatened rain. The sounds of a nearing battle struck fear and hesitation in the hearts of most civil common borns. Families cherished final moments and others celebrated a chance at honor. Either way the streets were dull and the bars were full. The individuals walking were perhaps without family to speak of or see off. Maybe soldiers taking in and admiring what they call home.

But people still crowded the cobblestone. I count ten. Anyone could be the infection into Demacia, plaguing my senses and causing me anxiety the day prior to battle. It's intentional. I sense Talon among them. Any woman or elderly man could be a simple disguise. But they all seem Demacian. They walk with pride and arrogance no matter their stature or poverty. It all appears usual. I quicken my pace and make an unfamiliar turn out of caution. I wouldn't lead him straight into my home. I wouldn't direct him to the only safe haven I can rest in. I head towards the shoppe district. I needed more health potions for the upcoming battle anyway.

Valor still tells me I'm paranoid.

* * *

It can't just be me. I can't be the only one who sees him in the corner of my eye. I feel him staring. I can catch the faintest scent of leather from a distance. I believe myself partially, but most of me is convinced that I've been pushed to the brink of insanity. I've been taunted and left for dead so often that I'm more confused and paranoid than grateful and appreciative of life. I'm admittedly tired, flustered, and far more light on my feet. I stare more behind me than I do forward. I send ice over my shoulder simply to determine if I've been stalked. The irony stings me as I recall my own profession. I've followed so many people, and yet I'm offended to be followed myself.

He's made himself so popular in my own mind. He's a constant topic of discussion between my ego and subconscious. A ghost that touches my thoughts and toys with my logic. I despise him, and yet I respect him as a rival. I feel a need to speak with him. I want to ask him so many questions. Converse and civilly come to terms with what we've done. I want to remove this plague from my head and return to normalcy.

I purchase several for a very steep price. My concerns are still elsewhere. Money has yet to impress me, nor worry me. But I find my fingers toying with change and seeing blades in small reflections. Feeling anxiety and a rapid heart beat at the memory of Talon standing over me. I recall the taste of dirt and blood as he set that potion on my abdomen. I remember laughing at how many arrows I'd embedded into his skin. I remember his face and his hair. The color of his eyes and the hatred they initially held, directed at me. Brown. Intense. Vivid and calm. Emotions that were infections.

The feeling of being stalked never fades. I walk another hour. I circle shoppes and do laps around the slowly dying marketplace. The cobblestones begin to hurt my feet after several hours. I look back and fourth between the thinning crowd of people. I meet every set of eyes and look at every head of hair. I examine postures and seclusiveness. I know enough about him to point him out of a hundred man crowd. His height, his weight, his style, clothing, features, favorite food, favorite knife, friends, associates, enemies and pass times. Through the years and research, I know more than what any Demacian archive can provide me. But I need to know more. I need to find a weakness I can take advantage of. And yet I'd searched prior to our confrontation and found nothing I hadn't already known.

Valor tells me I'm being ridiculous. I finally agree to go home.

Upon entering, I realize that a distinct smell has wafted over the room. A subtle shift in environment peaks my concerns. I close the door behind me, tensing. Evening sunlight trickles into the front room from the window. I can sense a distance change. Valor glides onto the balcony from the outside, perching on the ledge and pecking at the glass door impeding his route. The door was oddly closed. Things are altered. Armor. Books. Scrolls. My artwork. My arrows. All out of place yet seemingly untouched. They have yet to move from their exact places, and yet I sense the difference. The conforming smell of the forest leaves my nostrils. The room smells of leather and metal.

Leather...and metal.

He was in my home.

Valor screeches a tone of warning, muffled by glass. I hear his wings flap violently and shift multiple documents I'd had on my outside desk. Talon's standing there, as though he'd appeared with a gust of wind. Death looms over me again.

"You'd think Demacia's Wings would live in wealth." The voice cuts me. I feel nauseous. My heart is rapid. It feels like it's stopped. The pain my hip endures in the instant I see him is all subconscious. I stand straight and feel for my shiv.

I look to Valor past the glass and see that his mood is beyond hostile. He slams himself against the glass, but as we stand there and exchange vile expressions, it occurs to me Talon did not come here to kill. That tells me enough to breath, and hold up a hand to tell Valor to quiet himself. I send my bird a warning glance, and he screeches in response.

"Get out." Defensiveness bleeds from between my clenched teeth towards Talon. I feel them grind and ache my jaw.

He's leaning against the doorway to my restroom. He holds up two hands in mock surrender, shrugging and smirking. Playing this endless game of cat and mouse. My calm is yet again irked. Caleb would be so disappointed, watching me wallow in anger.

"This is significant," he says. His voice is one of depth and low tones. Viciousness and experience in every spoken word. Articulate and educated in an odd manner.

I'm angry. I'm too angry to listen to him. I'm not fearful or confused. The initial caution I felt boils to rage. His audacity to invade my home, stalk me, and rifle though my belongings strikes a fire in my belly. This overwhelming burn in my chest makes me agitated and restless. The expression on the lower portion of his face is smug and entitled. It infuriates me to no end. The feelings that ripple my blood are indescribable. A mixture of numerous things, all various and confusing. I was still angry. I still felt heat in my face and tension in every limb of my body. To look at the man who could have killed you, and yet be incapable of looking him dead in the eyes. Not because of fear or hesitation, but because of a fucking hood.

He begins to speak but I'd rather not listen. As he opens his mouth I stride forward and throw a fist into his jaw. I hear my hand crack at the joints. The pressure is dense and the action itself is too swift to evade. Talon hardly loses balance, recovering quickly and without retaliation. I'd anticipated more of a physical reaction. Or even a quick defense to counter my initial strike. But he just stands there and smirks at me with a hand on his jaw. Displeased and yet mildly humored at my reaction. I want to punch him again.

Valor is gone. Probably to warn Jarvan IV. My hand aches. There's a redness that swells my knuckles. It was worth it.

"Get out of my home." I hiss the statement. I want as much aggression in my voice as I feel in my heart. I despise this man. A murderer of so many innocents. A calloused Noxian assassin with a red reputation. The man who nearly killed me, and yet didn't.

"This is strictly business," he says. "I bothered to come here. You'd be wise to listen."

"I wanted to settle our dispute and we did. You won, you've proven your point. There is no business. Now leave." My tone is so deadly that I find it hard to believe I'd spoken. The actual rage I feel seethes from my lungs. I catch myself rubbing the scar he'd left on my neck again.

"I had no point to prove." He steps closer and lessens the distance between us. From four feet to one. He looks down on me like I'm a child.

"Then why allow me to walk away? Why not just kill me?"

I again sound like I wanted him to end my life. I'm beginning to think I'm subconsciously suicidal. Talon just stands there, arms crossed and hood still low. Posture lax and expression blank. He's so close I can hear him breath, and even that upsets me. His expressions and clothing just piss me off. I notice he again lacks the cape of knives. Probably something I should be thankful of. Even so he still threatens my life. He's standing in my home. Watching me. Armed. He could easily make a move to kill me. I have multiple plans for the situation of being attacked in my home, but he's proven himself superior before. I doubt I'd succeed the second time.

"Say something!" I yell at him. My patience has always been relatively thin, but in this instance it's nonexistent. He looks at me with a specific glare. His throat is tense for reasons unknown. I finally meet his eyes and he averts his gaze, examining the books littering my room.

"You didn't kill Du Conteau." The rigid posture he displays tells me he's uncomfortable. He's scowling. His eyes bounce back and forth from my dresser to my desk.

But his deceleration confuses me. I'm not sure what he means. Is he denying it? Insulting me? Saying I didn't have the power or strength to? "I did."

"Your hand did. You did not."

I realize he's here on politics. I roll my eyes.

"Why are you really here?" I can taste the venom coming out of my mouth. I'm proud of my ferocity and defensiveness. Not once do I consider myself narrow-minded or unreasonable. I don't want to listen to him. I want to kill him, but I dared him to kill me. Foolish. "Get out of my home."

"This is no longer about revenge, girl." He scoffs at me. "This is about closure."

"You want to know how he died?" The look on my face must have been odd. Because he shrugs off my expression and looks towards the window to look for Valor, avoiding eye contact.

"Every detail," he says.

I wonder if I should lie. In a split second I decide against it. "It was quick. Without public humiliation. By my hand and by the command of Demacia's leaders. In an honorable way."

"An _honorable_ way." I can see his anger rising again. I see his chest heave beneath fabrics as he scoffs the word 'honor'. He stares daggers at me, livid. His knuckles are pale as he makes fists. I see him rage internally.

I realize that standing there with my hand on my shiv would do nothing. I force myself to relax and sit at my desk to face him, taking all the oddities of this situation into consideration. But I brush all that off, because Talon wanted answers and I can see it vividly in the scowl of his face. Part of me wants to give him what he needs just to make him go away, and another wants to slash his throat and die doing it.

"I despised that man for the people he murdered. But I respected him, as hard as that is to believe. It's why I captured him even after he killed two of my best. I thought that he'd live a good portion of his life in prison; paying time for his wrongs, being miserable and sitting for hours thinking. But they demanded a public execution. He deserved to suffer for what he'd done, not die for it. I felt that we could sway his loyalty, make him realize that Demacia represented some of his better beliefs. Gain a political ally." I recall my arguments with Jarvan IV. He supported the execution due to his unyielding hatred of anything Noxian. I felt he wasn't considering the more humane and smart options. I was too young and stubborn to just listen to my superior. But I think he appreciated my fervor. Even on such a delicate topic of Noxian and Demacian politics.

"I demanded that my general void the execution; I even made my voice known to the courts. But all we could do was keep it a secret. He made sure both Du Conteau's capture and death left no breadcrumbs nor any targets for his daughters to take revenge on. And when they told me I'd have the 'honor'...I made sure it was quick and painless."

I remember that instant with every detail. The usual sound of my arrow. The way it cracked into his skull. I remember how willing he was to die. I recall the look on his face.

Talon lacks a voice for a long while. I can see him rolling over the thought. Frustration and disappointment are etched into his features. His disinterest turns to very mild mourning as he sets a hand to his forehead out of exhaustion. I wonder if I should have said anything to begin with. If I should have threatened him out of my home. Maybe I should have tried to kill him.

"Why did you need to know?" I ask him simply because I'm suspicious. A monster like Talon had no emotions or legitimate relationships. There was no love or consideration. He killed to kill. He's a Noxian.

But the look on his face tells me otherwise. That simple expression displays vivid faces of emotion and actual distress. And it's fascinating to watch someone I've never been capable of hurting suffer. It's a very cruel form of punishment. And yet I still lack any sympathy. All I can think about is the countless he's murdered. I hold only anger.

"I'm tired." He pauses. "_She's_ tired."

Du Conteau's daughter. The more dedicated one of the two. Katarina.

"I understand that." He shrugs his shoulders and scoffs, avoiding blame. This conversation makes me uncomfortable. My rival sits in front of me and makes awkward conversation about the man he respected whom I killed. It was all distressing and confusing. I felt far more calm than I should have been.

"His last words?" He looks at me, expectant. Staring at me through the dark of his hood. I examine the lower potion of his face, taking further note of the scar upon his chin. I'd seen it a few times before, and identified him by it once.

But his question strikes anxiety in my stomach. And I again think back to the day where Du Conteau was bound before me, set upon his knees on the marble of the execution chamber. Staring at me with a calm sort of venom that made me nauseous. His eyes were sharp. The red of his hair reminded me of blood. The strength he held in his stature was impressive, even when bound. He was naturally loyal to the Noxian way and belief, and was born with a deep hatred of anything Demacian. I had aimed my bow to the very center of his forehead. I killed him.

His lasts words are not something I reflect on often. But as I recall it more and more, their meaning evolves. "You're fighting for the wrong kind of honor."

He's gone as soon as I answer his questions. Talon leaves through my window so swiftly it's startling. I hear the lock flip and his clothing swipe against the balcony doorframe. I don't catch his entire departure; I blinked. I stand there for a long while. The meeting is still haunting, and part of me thinks it'd been a hallucination. It's still uncomfortable and it pains me the moment I realize it's over. He left here unscathed. Like some unwanted relative invading my privacy rather than a rival of warring nations. It occurs to that I truly can't kill him. I'd allowed him into my home. Had idle conversation. Exchanged civil words and allowed him to walk out my door.

I can't kill him. And I don't understand why.

* * *

The front lines are bathed in blood and filled with havoc.

I watch men fall, dead before they hit the mud. I watch others prevail with no celebration, and move on to the next kill. I bolt in from the treeline and fight as planned and commanded, but I don't belong here. This war zone of destruction and agony is not familiar or comfortable. It's crowded and smells of rot, blood and death. It's difficult to adapt to. Small amounts of magic are used. I see distant clashes of light from various spells illuminate the graying sky. A Demacian Mage is impaled as she casts a protective spell over a comrade. A soldier successfully thrusts his sword into Noxian scum. Even war dogs rip the throats of their enemies.

The ground is red and they sky is gray with rain and fog. Silver, black, and gold reflect small rays of light as armies clash. I catch a Noxian raising his mace to crush the head of a decorated soldier. I kill him with a well-placed shot before his weapon strikes, then move on.

The rain is heavy, but it can't cleanse this field.

I anticipated blood, but not gore. Not entrails and pain and fire and pleads of help. Not severed limbs and rotting bodies, elderly and young. I stare at a child as he lays dead, crumpled under marching feet, eyes lifeless as they point in my direction. Noxian laws incorporate children into their military. Boys of twelve are enlisted; generals with such a horrid mentality lack morals. Though one would argue that they have to.

I'm always before the front lines, in enemy territory. Not among them, pushing towards victory. I'm away from this catastrophe, far beyond these lines, searching for weak links and assassinating leaders upon occasion. I realize that none of my scouts have joined me, and I assume the worst.

I pressure myself to be quick. More so than usual. I dodge bodies and duck between clashed swords. I launch arrows without a pause, holding my breath as I make my way further up the field, stepping over carcasses and rolling off the preoccupied backs of fellow Demacian's. Valor screeches above me, swooping down to assist comrades. The restless roar of a dragon and the swift sounds of conflagration indicate Shyvana has further initiated. I see red light plow through enemies, wings cut through soldiers and knock away weapons. She extends them and screeches, demolishing multiple assailants.

The air becomes a ghastly fog further back, it conceals a multitude of soldiers and causes distress around the ranks. Singed assaults the battlefield and releases death in its gaseous form. The poison seeps so far, killing both Noxian and Demcian alike. And Shyvana stumbles back, lacking her once monstrous form, and suffers a sword to her shoulder in an attempt to avoid inhaling toxins. She falls and gasps, breathing heavily at the pain. I see her struggle, angry and stunned and shrinking as she loses strength.

I hold my breath, covering my mouth and nose with a heavy masking cloth, and endure the animosity and death that would scorch my lungs. It burns my eyes and pricks the skin, like a thousand needles trying to break flesh. Men beside me fall to their knees and vomit red. I drag her morphing body as far as I can go, attempting to haul another young man on my back. They all die around us. Enemies and allies. Choking on their lungs and hurling their entrails. I still cover my face, unwilling to inhale.

The need for oxygen is agonizing. It only takes a moment before I realize that the man on my back is long dead. I heave his body off and further pull Shyvana to safety. I lay her behind our ranks and among charging allies. She quickly regains full consciousness, bolting up as though rousing from a nightmare. The stoic expression still defines her as she nods at me, hand to mouth as though she were nauseas. I regret leaving her side, but I did.

I run back to attempt a second rescue. All I see are men still fleeing, noses in the crook of their elbow. Bodies litter the field. The grass is black and dead. My skin burns. I assume Shyvana still breaths due to her uniqueness. The poison never lasts long. I pray it dissipates.

The battle still continues, around or past the quarantined area. The front lines have migrated further up, far beyond what just occurred. I press on, firing arrows. I kill so many without consideration. I aim to push our army to victory. But my advances prove worthless. I continue too far, coming to the very edge of where both armies fully meet. Fear suddenly freezes me in the most dreadful of ways as I break near the front of my army, towards the center of the bloodshed. I stare upward in horror, losing my once instinctual and quick pace.

There he is. The Hand of Noxus. Darius, Swain's only good card. His massive stature alone sends me stepping back. He walks with a strong swiftness in heavy strides. His expression is malicious and yet oddly commanding, handsome with power and authority. A highly educated man with the force of an army behind both his axe and his words. An individual with a dangerous reputation and strict command. This is someone to fear. Someone you do not fight alone, or at all.

With a single, well-placed swing he slaughters two of Demacia's men. Slicing their torsos from their lower bodies. The blood sprays. As I blink, he approaches me with a look of recognition. Those beside me retreat. I am too preoccupied to be afraid. Too distracted and frozen from awe and terror. I feel a heavy spray of blood drench my face as more men fall. I can only stare, backing away.

His gaze fixates on me. He's aiming for me. And I knew I was dead.

I visualize a gory end. His approach is like watching a knife break the flesh of my abdomen. There was no escape or alternative option, because my mind is blank and I become dumb with fear. The dread and frustration I feel is heavy. It reminds me of my pursuit of Talon.

I feel sick.

I need to _move_.

I _have_ to _move_.

_**Do something**_.

I finally will myself respond. I launch arrows, firing a constant row in his direction. I know I didn't miss. But he keeps pressing forward without notice of the metal piercing his flesh. He uses his axe to swipe away incoming projectiles, slapping away my assaults. He slices three more men as he gains on my retreating form, his interest understandable. He finds a single, familiar, Demacian face and pursues it until satisfied. Having encountered him before only proved myself a valuable target to destroy.

I have to leave the battalion. He'll continue cutting men down in pursuit of me.

I look back to fire a second time, turning but not halting my retreat. Arrows and more arrows. I reload again and again, but he pushes through them. We're to the west of the battle, away from Demcian soldiers. Nearly one-on-one as I keep running, far more swift than any armor-heavy Noxian. I glance at him. My arrows protrude from his body, but they don't faze him. He works through the pain, like Talon. It must be a Noxian thing, to ignore your nervous system. A far off Mage casts a spell to slow him, but it does little to halt his pursuit.

He gains on me and slings his axe, catching my side by the blade and pulling me towards me. I feel the gash but the pain doesn't register. My armor takes most of the damage and I counter him swiftly. I fire again, jumping forward and sending my feet into his chest. He doesn't stumble back, he simply takes a defensive stance. Valor is not with me. I fight this alone and without crucial attacks that we often duo. My chances are looking worse by the second.

He swings at me, too close for any form of comfort. I play avoidance and duck beneath his arm, running behind him and rolling off his back to swiftly change positions. I take my shiv from my belt and stab his side between sets of armor, then roll away as he attempts to grab me. I fire a set of three, then a single shot to the head. He steps forward in a low stance to dodge, and cuts me again. I stumble back and choke at the massiveness of his hand around my neck. He tosses me like a child's toy, taking the upper hand. My ankle twists wrong and I'm out of ammo. The blood loss disables me. I struggle to stand.

He's so close now, making quick work of my execution. I can only wince at the pain. The odds of survival are less than none. As he continues to approach me, I become exhausted. The pain sets in, and I realize that I'm tired. I've lost yet again, and this time the end is so close that I hold no fear of it, nor do I want to escape it. I have no time to be afraid or honored. Despite this imminent threat I allow myself an brief instant of calm. I catch my breath and stand there, still feeling for ammo.

He's mere yards from me when he raises his weapon, the axe seeming to cover such a far distance with it's handle alone. And it's so swift that I can barely think. I feel how wide my eyes are as he gains on me. I taste the blood I bit from my lip, and choke on the damp air. In the instant he begins to bring the axe down, I hear Valor.

"Quinn!"

My heart is racing so quickly that it scorches my chest. The pain is unrelenting and I hardly hear my name as it resonates through the clashing of metal and sounds of magic. I can hear my pulse and I feel talons pierce the skin of my right wrist in a messy, quick movement. The flesh rips in Valor's grip, I hear it. My vision is blurred with mud and armor...running soldiers and moving weapons. A calamity of war and constant vigor that blinds me. I stumble a good distance away, rolling to safety. I look up to see that Valor is okay, which relieves me. He'd pulled me out of the way, and now flys further into enemy territory. Adrenaline pulses through my veins, intoxicating my ability and fortitude.

I try to stand to join him, but the lack of balance and pain I endure stops me, pushing me down to a single knee. And as I look up, I hear my superior scream my name in a tone of downright agony. He sounds devastated, though he appears fine. I watch Jarvan IV pass me by at a rushed pace, leading more men deeper into the front lines. He separates from the herd and clashes weapons with Darius. His expression is one of fierceness, anger, and determination. I had never seen so much fervor in his eyes, nor so much tension in his shoulders.

Their personal duel is strictly brute strength. I imagine it will last until they are the only two remaining. As he shoves his opponent back, Jarvan looks towards me over his shoulder, expression shocked and regretful.

I lose their figures between more men and bodies. I sit in mud on the cold ground far behind the ongoing carnage. My knees sink further into small rocks, mud, and pooling rain water. I'm bleeding more than I'd thought. I look down and see myself in a red reflection, crimson with disturbances from sprinkling rain.

I'd been thrown about like a rag doll, tossed around the field of battle. And as I move from the ground, head heavy and body sore, I feel a constant pain in my left arm. I look at it, disoriented and confused. This world in spinning and concentration is nearly impossible. I set eyes on my wound and lose breath. My throat dries at the sight alone. I hyperventilate, constantly distressed. It's gone. A bloody stump of dirt and bone resides where my dominant arm once shot arrows. The gory mess of ripped muscles and hanging tendons nauseates me. It was as though he'd only cut halfway before my arm was tugged from the blade. The pain is more than I can comprehend. I sit on my haunches and stare, a silent scream caught in my throat. I have to find my arm.

Where is my arm?

I lost my arm. I lost my arm. I lost it.

I see it among dead bodies, a few yards away.

I feel myself panicking. All this blood. All of it. My arm. The blood.

I see Talon in the treeline, looking at me.


	6. Recovery

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: Some truths and denials as promised to multiple readers. Hopefully you enjoy! Thinking of working on maybe a Thresh/Sona? Or Sona/Lee Sin? Either or. Both were suggested so both are being considered. Please leave some reviews and suggestions! Thank you!

**Chapter Six: Recovery**

* * *

I remember our first encounter. I think of it as I sit in this bed, incapable and grounded. I remember the dark. How late it had been. The clothes I'd been wearing. The way Val called to us as warning.

Felui, Mava, and Thero were older than me by at least a year. They are the only names and faces I remember with intention. I recall how Mava used his bow with impeccable aim and how Felui questioned my abilities alongside Valor. Thero was a gentleman of few words and strong arms. He smiled at me with clean teeth and restless, fervent eyes. I loved him unconditionally, with the eagerness and awe of a naive child. How similar he was to Caleb made my world less lonely. He was inspiring and caring. I'd made him a surrogate brother, a part of my family between Valor and I.

Commander Voc had led us through towards Noxus for basic strategy training. She was older and had known my brother and I in our youth. Her son had died in battle during the war in Ionia. But she directed us with confidence and wisdom, not emotion. Our mission had been to analyze and take note of any weaknesses in Noxian defenses. Any rotting brick in their wall, or starved soldiers standing guard. Then to determine the best situation and strategy for infiltration. A simple task for simple scouts, proven too risky and difficult that day we timidly set foot in territory beyond what we know.

I regret so much when the memories fester in my mind for more than a few seconds. When they call me back to remember so many mistakes and losses. To think on what I could have done rather than what actually happened. The night I saw him for the first time, in the middle of bodies, seemingly thoughtful towards my survival. Talon observed me as Felui laid beneath his feet and gagged her last breath. As Mava watched the blood pool from his stomach and mouth, shaking at the sight. As Thero reached for me in gurgled silenced and bled out on the forest floor.

I was too stunned for heartbreak. It didn't register, what had happened. In my mind I was still dodging...still hearing Valor. Val had seen him before all of us. Voc had told me to run, but the moment spent talking was wasted. I narrowly dodged a blade she wasn't quick enough to notice. Her neck was spilling red and she looked at me with empty eyes. Her body fell and I started a sprint, because I was going to survive despite my odds. I refused to die there, for whatever reason. I was scared. We hadn't even fought him. He was so quick and precise. Clean. Unlike anyone I had ever witnessed.

Talon was untouchable.

Her stood there. Like some warlord. Haughty and humored by the death he caused. That hood concealed him. It happened too quick for emotions to rise in me. Shock. Instinct.

I shot an arrow towards his head; he narrowly dodged it. It caught his hood, and I saw a brief glimpse of his face. I like to think he appeared much younger than what I compare to now. Long hair and viciousness described him perfectly in only a very small portion of his countenance. I could barely see the foul expression that resembled an angry child with an unhappy past. He stared at me with elongated eye contact, reading me as we paused mid run. I was the frail animal frozen in fear, and he was the hunter's gun aimed between my eyes. But I knew, as I watched the people I love die, and as I witnessed the animosity and entertainment in his face, that I would be the one to kill him. An act of justice? No. I told myself that to sugar coat the truth. To avoid telling myself that this journey to hunt him down would destroy me. That this was revenge in its most bitter and restless forms. That I lowered myself to his level of wickedness and nonexistent morality.

I spent hours out there, dodging him. He charged at me endlessly and we played cat and mouse for an unknown amount of time, but I evaded his attacks and tried to respond in kind as he cut me. Val sustained multiple wounds in his wings and back, hardly capable of flying. We had aggravated him enough with our attempts. Eventually we ran like cowards from a danger I couldn't face. I survived, holding my injured bird close and fighting tears as I limped to the gates of Demacia. I left strong but reliant on those around me, and I returned even stronger, independent, and with set intentions. I was still a child, crawling out of the woods with bruises on my body and twigs in my hair. I had the blood of the man I loved on my fingertips for the second time. The hate developed me and pushed me to become stronger. It raised me into what I am.

I think on that memory as I sit in this bed. In an empty room save the table with food I haven't touched. This space is confining with warm colored walls and an open window. Valor lays at my feet as though protective, wings stretched over the entire mattress. The door only opens when people visit or a mage comes in for healing purposes.

Vi came to see me. Asked me if I could sign the scribbled on cast on her left hand. She'd punched a shield too hard during battle. I hadn't thought that were possible with the amount of armor on her knuckles alone, but the broken bones don't lie. Her strength and loyalty towards Piltover is commendable, considering she could have avoided Demacia's war entirely rather than having volunteered. She flips her hair and says it's no problem, but Vi hides all her fears behind a charming smile and her fists. A broken hand would have caused her extreme panic...internally, anyway. And I doubt we will see her volunteering for Demacia again.

I reached for the pen to sign but my arm wouldn't move. Multiple attempts and my hand just laid there, tensing and incapable. My fingertips twitched as I grasped at the air. Vi left due to my frustration, and I could see the pity in her face as she wished me a quick recovery. She said I would recover. That there was no doubt in her mind.

"If you hit a wall, hit it hard." She grinned at me and closed the door behind her.

The reattachment process had been horrifying. I was conscious for a good portion of the time, listening to tendons and tissues mend together. It looked normal but it wouldn't move correctly or gain back feeling. I couldn't lift a fork to my own mouth. I couldn't lift my bow or a pen or Val. The weakness is devastating. I received strength training four days in with no acceptable recovery. After three sessions I could lift small weights. I went outside and shot from a generic bow. Over and over again. New attempts. Multiple arrows. I walked closer with each strayed shot, thrown off by a bum arm. I was hardly five feet from the wall. I barely hit my mark. I could barely lift it to begin with. I punched my target with my good hand until I bled. I have bandages on my knuckles and I'm no longer allowed to leave the room.

Nami came back as though to humor me, saying she could try to further fix my arm with the healing properties of her oceans. She helped to reattach it, but the doubt on her face was enough to tell me that she couldn't do anything else. And neither could Soraka, or Sona or Taric. None of them knew how to fix it. None of them understood what was wrong. They pitied me and said they tried. They didn't try hard enough. Their livelihood was not on the line. Their honor and respect were not endangered. Their goals and duties were not taken from them.

Garen said I should be thankful that they could reattach my arm at all. I wanted to tell him to go choke on his sword. Because what use is it if it doesn't work? Who am I if I can't even fire an arrow? Or send Valor forward towards enemy eyes?

I sit here brooding while Val lay in my lap. I'm staring at the wall, aggravated and hostile and thinking. If I can't regain my ability then this would render me useless. I've been here two weeks and I can't even leave to rot in the peace of my own home. Caitlyn drops in to ensure my safety with Piltover's finest guards standing outside my door. They say I've killed and arrested too many political figures to live without being watched while vulnerable. They're painfully correct. Lux came in afterwards, informing me of the battle and its outcome. She wore small wounds on her face, concealed by a white, square bandage. She said the battle lasted and the casualties were detrimental. But overall Demacia rose to success. Jarvan was hailed at the last council meeting and apparently mentioned my name. I lacked a response. I didn't care. I'd rather have died.

* * *

It's early in the morning when a familiar feeling looms over me. Like eyes in the walls. I wait a half hour before finally sitting up to rouse, cautious. Val is probably out stretching his wings. This is a terribly inconvenient time to be gone. I hate feeling watched. He does as well.

My eyes immediately go to the door, anticipating company for some unknown reason. Or maybe I was looking for the guards and hoping one would enter for their hourly rounds. I see a shadow shift at the window. It's at the edge of my eye towards the far right corner where the breeze flows into the sixth floor. The air in Piltover carries a different scent. But I smell leather and metal and I know he's here.

He reveals himself and stands there as though I should focus on him. Provide him with all of my attention. Praise him for being so witty in finding me miles from my usual routine. I feel so much hate. So much resentment and bitterness. Like an elder with her life withering away before her eyes. Calloused and jaded. I recognize rugged wisdom and learned caution when I see a reflection. I see eyes similar to the many I'd pitied, glossed with past pain and anger. I see what I tried to avoid for years in enemy territory. Grief and aggravation. Disappointment and lackluster expressions. So when he observes me he's silenced, because he recognizes anguish and aggravation. And I smile a bitter grin because I finally hushed a man who does nothing but mock me.

"Finally here to end it?" My own voice sounds foreign to me. This broken attitude is hostile and livid and it grows on me more with the endless silence I hear from my rival. The grin on my face widened and I can do nothing but find humor in my pain and regret. It's irony and it's laughable.

"Pitiful," he spits. As though he were so great.

"Here to kill me, Talon?" I ask with an eerie calm in my voice. I want him to feel as unwelcome as he actually is. I want to be the one instilling fear for a change.

He walks to the door and slides it locked, examining basic Piltover technology involved in the locking mechanism. It's not surprising to realize that Noxus is not as advanced as the City of Progress. I want to laugh at him. Make him feel meek and useless. The thought of seeing him as miserable as I am would put a warmth in my chest.

"Compensation for sparing your life." He double checks the window with a clam countenance. He observes the room and then my bed. He scans the wraps on my arms and scoffs at me.

"Get out." I spit the words. The message never gets through. I don't care what he feels he needs to do. Or what he wants to do. I don't care about his warnings or traps. I don't even want to know why. My curiosity is beaten down and I couldn't care less if he tried anything here and now.

"I need you to get up and listen." His tone is solid and deep, and sounds as though we were keen with one another. Like we'd been buddies in the same rank for years. He's putting up some high quality facade to further aggravate me. Draw me in as though truly interested and then put a dagger in my back as I lean in to listen.

"Why are you really here?" I ask blatantly. I refuse to play his games.

He looks at me with crossed arms and leans his back on the farthest wall. He crosses his legs at the ankle and expresses a lax position, as though unthreatened by my injured state. He smirks coyly and glances out the window before speaking.

"Why are you really in that bed?"

What a prick.

"Because I haven't healed correctly." I speak the truth, but he makes me feel like a liar. His contradiction and snide tone of voice make me feel false and uncertain. The feeling bothers me immensely.

"Or maybe you don't want to heal correctly." I'd like to punch the suggestion back into his mouth.

"Why are you here, Talon?" I pause. I could ask a better question. I could ask a thousand 'better' questions. "Better yet, why am I alive? Why am I sitting here? Why is my body not seven miles out and six feet under?"

"You're a decent adversary. Entertaining." His mouth is flat and his expression is distant. He hold no sarcasm nor humor, and that fills my stomach with aching rage. I hold it in. I have to maintain control.

He scratches as his chin and speaks as though important. "You said you'd killed Du Couteau...so I thought maybe you'd been playing weak this entire time. I wanted to know what abilities you concealed that enabled you to capture and kill a master assassin."

"I tracked him to his camp. He made mistakes that were out of character, but I figured the wounds had given me the advantage. Valor blinded him, so I took the opening and ended it. I kept him unconscious until we reached Demacia."

"How could someone of such reputation be overcome by a novice?" The idea scratches at my skull. I'd gotten lucky. That's what Garen had said, and that had been the worst case scenario. That he'd been weakened by Demacian guards prior to his escape.

"An assassin who'd forced countless to their knees and nearly murdered the Demacian Prince?" I can't even gain the upper hand on Jarvan while sparring. How could I have brought in a man who had my General an inch from death?

"A reputation untainted by failure, but incapable of killing an unguarded monarch?" Talon smirks as I see his point.

"He's not..." I mumble to myself, distraught. I press my lips together out of panic. My throat itches crazily. The thoughts are being thrown back and fourth so quickly that I lose myself in thinking. My hands are shaking so violently that I have to press my palms to my legs to stop them. Anxiety wracked me with guilt and apprehension. This can't be right. This couldn't be legitimate.

The truth is unveiling itself before my very eyes in a simple yet unbelievable situation. I've always known, but the larger picture had been pushed to the farthest recesses of my mind due to my success. I had met both my and my brother's expectations, and that had blinded me from the actuality of the situation. It kept me from seeing the strong possibilities that would have changed everything, all of it obvious to anyone who knew the facts. I feel the reality slip from my throat as I respond in a raspy disbelieving tone that mocked me.

"Why am I here?" He asks with confidence in my answer. His scowl is heavy and he's too close for my personal comfort. I see his irises as he looks at me, anticipating a quick reply. My lips are dry as they part to speak.

"Because I didn't kill Du Couteau."


	7. Ploy

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: Thank you all so much for the incredible feedback on this story. I apologize for the delay in updates. College. Blah. I will continue to elaborate on the truths of this ploy. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Ploy**

* * *

This feeling burns within my chest, hauntingly. I ask myself so many questions and cannot find a conclusive answer. I'm plagued with confusion and discontent. My mind is reeling and I suddenly feel ill. How could I have allowed this to occur? I was so distracted, moronic, and unaware. How could I have been deceived so easily?

"A political ploy." It had to be. I'm certain as I say it.

"An intricate one, in favor of Jericho Swain." His tone is so sour as he speaks the name. He reassures me with parallel thinking.

"Why am I being informed?" I ask with caution. There's no reason for me to have this information. No realistic purpose for my knowing. This entertainment he's found because of my stubbornness had possibly developed into fascination. It happens with all rivals. Garen and Katarina. Jarvan and Swain. My phase of intricate stalking and spying has passed. I have more than what I need to know of Talon.

I can see his expression behind the dark of his hood. The light of the window barely illuminates a portion of his face. In the instant, he visually lives up to his title. "Everything you remember from that day is needed. Everything you documented is necessary."

A political scandal involving the highest position of Noxian rule and the state of Demacia as a whole. I had momentarily forgotten my hatred for the man in front of me. Concern was the only highlighted emotion I could determine. Swain was the only driving force that pressured war against Demacia. Prior generals had verbal spats, but the extremes were only spoken of. No action was held. No death occurred at the foot of those spats. The tension had been high but there was peace. Demacia would no longer suffer. A feeble scout was given the chance to assist in the end of a tyrannical reign. I look at Talon and meet his gaze. He's staring at me, awaiting an answer.

Who says he's telling the truth? This vile man approaches me and tells me what he claims are facts. A man who's killed people I'd trained and fought with. A monster that once slaughtered strong women and youths playing soldier. He confronts me and speaks of ploys and government coups that have indirectly involved myself and my reputation. He tells me information that no soul would have ever figured or guessed on their own. Issues beyond the drapes of political stages. Who says I should trust him? What liable evidence do I have that could direct me in this situation?

I have none.

But my gut hurts in this matter. I've trusted it prior to this occasion and came out successful: a hero. I've brought justice with the trust I've put in what I think should be done. I've brought home wanted heads and calloused murderers with only my sixth sense and I've survived due to that uncertainty. This all ties together. It all makes sense in odd, skewered ways. Murder for a throne. That story's been told a thousand times.

"You're asking me to help you." I act as though he was uninformed. Like he didn't know what he was doing.

He scoffs and crosses his arms nonchalantly. "I'd ask for more if your condition was improved."

I don't know what he means. Initially is seemed perverse but I feet that his inability to be social wouldn't allow anything beyond staring. I've concluded that he means in a physical way, using my legitimate abilities to assist the situation. He admits he'd reach out to me for help in his personal matters? As though we were allies? There had to be ulterior motives; something else.

"Severed limbs aren't exactly quick to heal," I don't know how I say it, but I do. Hopefully in a sour tone.

"I would know." He scowls at me with a raised hand, expression vague. The rugged scar around his wrist is visible from the distance between us. I laugh at him.

"Still upset over the hand?"

"Fully healed in two days." He leans back on the wall, distancing himself. Glowering at me from his place across the room. He shouldn't be churlish over the injury. It saved his life, preventing the spoils of poison from rotting the rest of his body. But here he is...bitching.

"I would imagine that an arm takes more time to heal," I argue as though a doctor. I want him to know that this is a more detrimental setback. I create excuses to justify my weakness, because it would be un-Demacian of me not to.

"Due to subconscious defiance against the healing process." Such an frustrating remark. Heat boils in my face at his lackluster expression. He's implied my neglect to heal once before and it sends pulses of agitation through my skull. A headache slowly develops at my temple.

"That accusation is already old."

"So is this conversation."

It stops there. For once we agree and it drives me insane. The facts lay before me like blood on my hands. I did not capture nor kill Du Couteau. One of two possibilities: he's dead, or in hiding. And this missing Du Couteau is a trail of crumbs that leads to Jericho Swain, who in one way or another got rid of Du Couteau to take his place as the head Noxian General. Which led to an imposter of Du Couteau's identity, who was captured and executed, simply to cover the legitimate murder ordered by Swain.

"Ingenious," I say such to myself. The facts are still running through my mind."To kill a man, and then stage his death so that your enemies are to blame."

"The execution was never publicized." When he says that it dawns on me. The entire purpose of the assassin's attempt on the King's life was for naught. The purpose of what occurred was lost when the Council voted for a private execution...due to my insistence.

"Swain was incapable of killing Du Couteau without government suspicion."

"Staging his death to Demacian law would provide the opportunity to kill Couteau himself. The decoy being executed publicly would have alleviated any suspicions among the generals."

"But it never happened. Either having been killed despite the inconvenience, or going into hiding, Du Couteau simply vanished."

It's a minute or so before Talon speaks again. The silence dwindles, and for a moment I forget he's in the room. My defenses are lacking. It concerns me.

"This is larger than our rivalry," he says.

"Right." I admit that much to myself. I lower the tone as I realize I'd been speaking out loud. But the truth was in front of me. And the question was out: Would I be willing to give away priceless information and analyzations of Jarvan IV? To expose his personal written letters as well as information I had collected on Talon himself? Including the notes of the assassination attempts and a vague map of the King's estate?

"Removing Swain from power would place Noxus in more reliable hands." I say it and await either agreement or rejection. He would know more on the politics of Noxus. He would be capable of determining the effects Swain's removal would cause.

"It would end the war." He says it with a certain tone. I don't know what it is. I can't identify it. His expression is solid and his jaw is clenched, flexing his neck as he swallows. It's interesting to examine him outside of a challenge. To watch him stand naturally without aggression or expectation. He seems nearly average, though I do not allow such thoughts to further weaken my defenses. He cannot be trusted, no matter what situation we would be forced to endure together.

My stomach hurts. It aches in telling me this is right. I taste blood on my lip as my teeth dig in. I hear individuals speaking in the hallway.

"The bookcase to the left of the balcony. The red leather journal fifth to the right on the fourth shelf down." I spill my information as though a child with a knife to her throat. But it feels correct. I admit that I don't regret my decision. That the feeling within my gut is satisfied and in turn so is my mind. I have given him nothing to place anyone in critical danger. He already knows where I live. He knows everything about anyone of Demacian royalty. Anything I provide him is either old facts or possible evidence, strictly regarding the events involving the assassin and execution.

He looks at me with a level of seriousness that pricks my skin. He nods and shows some vague appreciation. "Thank you."

He's gone once I take a breath to respond. I decide in this moment to stand from my bed and prepare to depart this dreadful hospice. I'm shaken with anxiety and distress. I won't just sit here as deceit takes place. As everything I worked for crumbles. But how is it falling apart when only I know the truth? I didn't kill Du Couteau. I never won my reputation with heroism and courage. Valor and I never saved the King and put down a legitimate threat. I struggle to use both arms to pack my books and belongings that linger about the room and bed. I'm ready to leave. I want to do something...anything but sit here and rot.

He forgot to unlock the door. I begin to wonder where the hate has gone.


	8. Decisions

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: Thank you for the support and praise. Please let me know if I can improve. I'd also very much enjoy ideas or suggestions! c:

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**Chapter Eight: Decisions**

* * *

"You're sure?" She asks me and I feel terrible for feigning my composure. Her expressions were simple and soft. Her hair was pristine and well combed. The cuts on her face healed to small scars. She compared them to the ones on my cheeks and neck. I laugh it off because Luxanna was still naive. Her assigned battalion had very few casualties, if any at all. She has not witnessed bloodshed. Her hands have never been pressed to the leaking throat of a dying comrade. Her clothes have never been seeped in gore.

"I'll be fine," I reassure her as I always have. Very unlike her brother's bluntness. I'd like to think my skills in communication surpass that of Garen.

"Jarvan said '_once you were ready_'. It's not necessary to leave today."

I recall the meeting. It was tense and too stiff for my liking. I was invited at the side of Jarvan IV and introduced as one of his best and brightest, having survived his recent defense against Noxus. Probably second to Garen, considering he'd already been seated. The discussion was based around Piltover's retreat in the war. They pulled out and desired neutrality, having lost countless from their forces. The hand of Piltover was supposedly forced, supporting their aim for pacifism and diplomacy. Discussions of continuous support in trade and exports were considered, but eventually rejected.

A rift was created that evening, separating two councils of advisors who'd seemed like children in their tones and tantrums. Zaun still provides to Noxus, leaving Demacia with dwindling numbers and scientists. However, the issue of funding overwhelmed the minds of the King and his council. Currency reared its ugly head and devoured what little there was to hope for. Not enough to fuel an army. Never enough to feed the soldiers. Taxes were raised right before my eyes. It was surreal.

"It is. Demacia requires allies. That wasn't stressed as much as it should have been." I turn to look at her with a seriousness I save only for specific conversations. "It is an honor to be assigned this mission, Lux. I will gladly give my life in the process of strengthening our numbers."

"You don't have to speak so formal, Quinn. I'm not the king." Lux has a sour expression on her face and sighs as she leans on my doorframe. She's picking at her nails. I hate the sound. "No one is doubting your loyalty. You've been to the Freljord before, but you had better confidence in your arm. And you weren't on a desperate mission of diplomacy."

"My arm's healed." The truth is so far from what leaves my mouth, but it does not bother me. Rather, I don't let it. It does not call my attention, but combat has yet to test its limitations. I admit I'm not ready for this endeavor, but I'm very aware that I do not have a choice.

"If you're confident enough then that's fine with me." She slants her smile and crosses her arms over her chest. "Just don't...die."

Her phrasing and vocabulary are exquisite, entirely in a sarcastic sense. But she's still young, and looking at her forces me to think far older than I am. An old hag, Garen had once implied jokingly. Though I do believe myself to be older. Twenty five, I think. I can't recall the last time I'd thought of my age. Twenty three? Two? Six?

"I won't." I briefly smile while prepping my boots. "I promise."

I set off north towards the Freiljord with a familiar destination in mind. Jarvan had seen me off with a very stoic departure, and despite my better judgement I had shaken his hand as though a comrade. He seemed to not mind it. Garen, however, may have damned my existence with only a glower.

Leaving the gates put an uneasiness in my stomach. Valor will lead ahead in the sky to scout for obstacles or threats. His confidence inspires me to push aside any minor concerns as well as better wrap my arm. He ruffles his feathers and takes off from my right wrist, wingspan having grown since our last expedition to the North.

Leaving the gates always seemed visually heroic. Entering the outskirts of Demacia however, was not. I trekked the flatlands cluttered with impoverished homes and unfortunates. What was left of the poor was scattered outside the safety of the walls. I think of Talon and his bleak comparisons of Noxius to Demacia. Another similarity of classes. This disturbed me. The brief visual of my childhood home stirs more discomfort in my gut. My parents have the fire going. I see the smoke leaving the chimney in interrupted clouds. She'd bake breads on cloudy days, the dough pressed in a pan over the fire and left to rise. The memories have grown bitter. My brother's grave is around the area. I never cared to remember the location. I'd find it if I needed to.

The number of houses dwindle the farther outwards we stray. My former home on the forest edge is out of sight within moments. I walk the woodland outside of Demacian territory for hours. My legs are too fast for my mind to keep up with. I hadn't realized I was moving so quickly. But time goes slowly and the sun seems to be unmoving despite my patience. I can no longer see Valor above me. His definition of "staying close" must be far from my own. I guarantee he went ahead some few miles. Show off.

I walk for some time before I reach the thickened tree-line, a landmark informing me of the upcoming territories. I set up a brief camp prior to maneuvering through the Bubbling Bog. My feet don't hurt yet. I assume the third day will cause some ache and issue should I avoid rest. I eat pre-made food from my pack and seat myself beside the fire. Nothing catches my immediate attention yet. I'm too close to home. Too distracted.

The smell of this place is refreshing and somehow liberating. The trees release a scent more natural here than anywhere else. Like the calm prior to the storm. Beyond this tree-line lay a bog with an odor so pungent you taste it briefly at the back of your tongue. I swallow at the thought, eyeing Valor as he picks at the agitated feathers in his wing. I flex my arm, tightening the bandages. The flicker of a shadow from the fire placed me on edge. I calm myself at the realization. Talon still haunts me, despite our temporary truce due to extreme political ploys. But that hatred I had once held is so faded it scares me. I no longer turn red with despise at the mere thought of him. My stomach does not boil as it used to. I begin to loath myself for what I've become.

I sense something unnerving and sudden. It was swift to come and go.

I douse the fire as soon as I realize my disadvantages. Valor takes to the skies after we exchange a silent understanding. I cover the soaked embers with dirt and then foliage to better dissolve my tracks. It's habitual at this point, but I have no need to hide my leftovers during this expedition. This is a mission of peace talks and alliance. One known strictly to those of Demacian council. I should have the upmost confidence in my endeavor and yet concern tightens itself in my stomach uncomfortably. Paranoia. I listen to it and take to the trees, leaving no tracks or snapped branches.

I would die before I let him hunt me again.

* * *

We've been traveling for several days now. Four, should we count the current. My legs are beginning to burn with adrenaline. It's comforting to feel the exhilaration of travel once again, and I compare it to the endless hell that is resting uselessly in a bed. Even if this path is familiar, I am thankful to be away and with Valor. I witness the gradual but also abrupt change in landscape. I gratefully pass the bog and leave its unpleasant stench of gasses and rot behind. I will not stop until this uneasiness fades. It's familiar. I know what it's like. It does not haunt me as easily.

I wonder if he thinks this is humorous. That our endless exchange of stalking and fighting has little purpose or reason. I aim to stop him, but his end game? I have no idea. It's beyond me, despite our previous exchange. He had every opportunity to kill me, yet he didn't. Yet he hasn't. And he had no reason to let me live, yet he did. Yet he still does. In turn, I had aided him blindly...but I do not regret it. I only regret falling for his game. All this time, I was trying an he way toying. It flusters me with anger pointed towards my own choices, but I cannot afford to distract myself further. I ignore the feeling. I shut it out.

He can follow me all he wants. It's his own waste of time.

* * *

The river is undoubtedly wondrous, as it always is, but the creatures that reside within force my distance. I lost a scout to a legend, who devoured him grotesquely, a mile north. I had underestimated a simple landmark filled with lore and tales, and it cost a scout's life. Since then I have been more than cautious. I must cross it s massive width to save a week's journey, despite my distaste for what lay within. And Valor attends me at a closer distance when I do. The bird hangs overhead like a tedious mother, scrutinizing my way of crossing an abandoned dam rather than the predictable bridge an hour's walk further. I'll risk it, but I will not underestimate it. No, never again.

I had assumed that after crossing the Serpentine River that this feeling of paranoia would pass. That the idea of my life being in danger yet again would dissipate from my surroundings, and Talon would leave from wherever he was hiding. I cannot focus. Valor returns and reassures me that no threats reside within walking distance. A traveler seemingly from Ionia sightsees ahead, but so far there are no others for miles.

This disconcerts me. The lack of people on a dangerous but widely known route from Demacia.

I'd at least anticipated multiple bands of gypsies. They harvest from both the bog and the river, selling items others dare not travel for. This further assures my suspicions. Talon does not work so obviously, his stealth would be enough even with crowded roads. Someone cleared them.

I will not allow my disposition to reveal that I know what I know. Whoever it is follows me for a reason, as is usually anticipated. But I am hesitant to admit that it is definitely not Talon. And I am more certain in saying that they have intentions of killing me. At least before I reach the Freljord.

I send a note with Valor to return to Demacia. I write to Jarvan, informing him that I approach the mountain and shall reach the Freljord within a day, give or take. I code in a minor note at the base to explain my situation. That I am being followed. Valor screeches at me as I secure the letter to his front, obviously disapproving. I don't have time to argue. I send him off, pissed and agitated. Ridiculous bird.

I'm alone now. The mountains are endless upon the dreary horizon and each is capped heavily in snow. My echoes are vibrant and shift the land with a mock power I find humorous. The roar that resonates back and fourth from my lips to the sky is daunting; this place seems hollow. I cross the bridge towards Ashe's stronghold, cautious of where I planted my feet. There have been endangering incidents in the past concerning the stability of the previous bridge. A thin shambled little piece made up of planks and string was all travelers relied upon. This was thicker in base, but honestly was no better when considering the frost.

The instant I consider the chance of danger, I am thrown off to the side by a slipped foot, struggling to keep a grip on the ice of the rope. I haul myself upwards, heart pounding so loud within my chest that I can hear it. I drag myself to the opposing side and sigh in relief at my survival. The drop was not too overwhelming, but it did imply several broken limbs while surrounded by snow and wildlife. The farthest thing from a good outcome. They need to make it solid. Though I doubt the carcasses at the base could testify in favor of a stone bridge.

I move onward to The Pass. A thin stretch of road barely able to allow a wagon through. Caked in snow and ice and silt. One side was the mountain, and the other was what the locals called "The Abyss". A fine name for something with so much depth. Far more than the basin below the bridge. But these ranges tower, and they have a strength that does not properly fit to words. They exhibit a greatness no mortal could possibly obtain. They survive climates and disasters any man would easily fall victim to. It becomes difficult to see in only moments as dusk encroaches. I curse myself for having not crossed sooner. The trip is safer trip by full daylight, though this isn't entirely dark. A very dim and colorless sunset, a thin glow of light barely illuminating the clouds and mist.

Valor would say that it'd been more convenient if I could fly.

My lips are cracked and bleeding despite the thick cover over my mouth. I feel the sting of a harsh wind, and I brace myself against such currents. When I feel the brief beginnings of strong gusts I tense myself against the mountain wall. It's capable enough to topple me a few feet and then over that ledge, which I continuously eye as an imminent threat to my life. And yet the adrenaline of such danger fuels me. I feel the need to run across the icy road as a gamble. My once severed arm clenches and unclenches at the idea as I walk, fingertips suddenly prickly and numb. My arm aches like a subconscious reminder of the suffering and worthlessness I've faced as of late. I was deceived. Not only by the state of Noxus and its tyrant, but also by my own pride. And I will not give in so easily to death, not until I prove myself worthy of what I have claimed to be for so long.

I trudge on. It's far too late to turn around.

I take it slow. Valor would surly wreak havoc upon my hair should he find out about this miserably lonesome endeavor. The thought brings a physically painful smile to my face. My lips bleed more, and I'm afraid to feel if the blood itself had frozen over. The uneasiness of being followed returns: of being watched. I prep my dagger in stiff, chilled fingers. So cold they don't even feel like my own. I hear careful footsteps hide behind my own in sync and I dare not look back to expose myself further. But I'm given no time. Another gust of wind, and I tense at the impact. And then an arm wraps itself about my neck like a noose, constricting my airway. And they lead me to that ledge.

I embed my dagger successful into the assailants breast plating. No impact with skin, despite my efforts, but I imagine it's deep enough to cause irritation. I struggle against someone I could exaggerate and say was twice my size, leading the dagger further in with my back. He was a massive force, all muscle and width. I twist beneath the hold, throwing my waist up to wrap my legs about his wrist. I shift my weight opposite to the bend of his elbow, forcibly applying pressure as he raises his arm. I hear the appropriate "snap" and yank myself away from groping hands. He yells.

I keep a level mind, even as I imagine myself plummeting to my death in such a chasm. He curses me. That voice. It was obviously not my usual opponent. And even if I'd had doubts after his build and tone? Talon isn't so sloppy.

Another drops down gracefully from a ledge above. There were two. I assume they were trained well enough to hunt, because I could barely make myself aware of the first. I pull my bow from my back and aim like second nature, and to my delight it skims his arm plating as he dodges to the left. He sprints forward and dives under my instinctual assaults, hitting me hard beneath my ribcage. It hurts and I twist around to elbow him in the jaw. They wear half-face covers made of thick cloth. I cannot see their breath. Their armor is made of thin, hardened leather for dexterity and speed, but still capable of halting a knife. The design is a bit excessive and dank, but the weak points are manageable. I see the style and insignia; they're Noxian.

Talon does his own work. This is off-putting.

They both come towards me with a ferocity urged by either money or necessity. I fire multiple arrows at the closest out of quick desperation, backing up towards the initial assailant who'd been nursing his arm all this time. Two of four embed into his armor. A small success on my part, but it does not faze him.

The initial assailant lunges his weapon at me with his good arm, the precision nearly commendable for a two-handed weapon being wielded in only one. It's an axe which is easy to dodge. I yank my own knife from his breast plate and turn as though escaping his range, angling the blade to slide between the second's abdominal defenses and pelvis as I retreat. I feel it break skin, and then he drops, knives mid-thrust in direction of my neck.

I turn to aim my bow at the first for a defensive but critical blow. I load and take stance, but my arm stops, and suddenly it's numb. I drop my crossbow, incapable. It screams like a thousand needles beneath my skin. The effects of a once detached limb halter my abilities beyond assumption. A fist collides to the side of my head, temple aching upon immediate impact.

I roll about to the edge, blinking away the dizziness that distorts my vision. I reel back, unprepared, shifting into my feet in unsteady desperation. I can't feel my bow, or my arm, or my lips...but I'm halfway up with one leg crouching and the other extended outwards to dodge. I'm bleeding from somewhere, I think. It might not be my blood. My head throbs. My arm feels the way static sounds and I realize that this weakness has just cost me my life. I'm looking up to my fate in the blurred shape of a weapon, horrified and delayed. I feel how wide my eyes are and I sense my immediate trepidation. My body is frozen and tense for impact as he brings down that axe I had earlier underestimated.

I see Darius, bringing down the weapon which took my arm. I see the Hand of Noxus in this assailant's place, aiming to kill.

_I'm going to die._

I cannot fathom the movement that forces me back, heels digging forcibly into the road and ice. I defend myself with the thin metal piece that adorns my right arm; decorated in the scratches and indentation from Valor's claws. It bends slightly and gives under the blade, slicing thought to barely break my skin. I'm trembling. Both fear and cold have shaken me uncontrollably, so much that my teeth chatter inconsistently. My arm hurts. He's pressing down further and I grow closer and closer to the Abyss. I can escape this. I refuse to die here.

I cannot recall what suddenly occurs without skepticism. Multiple blades extend into my vision, embedding themselves into my opponent's armor and skin. The velocity causes him to stagger, and I feel relief as the axe is lifted from my arm. Blood follows the movement and taints the snow under footfall. Another round of knives puts him in a defensive position, points of weakness all hidden. At first I'd hoped this distraction was an ally...someone who'd followed me to ensure my safety. Scouts sent by Valor or even perhaps Valor himself, distorted by the mountain's shadows. A thousand possibilities that involved Demacian aid ran thought my head, pleadingly and without sense or logic. But I see the hood and hear his voice, telling me words that I can't comprehend in my confusion. I cannot deny his presence. I cannot conjure anymore lies to think otherwise. Talon had just saved my life, and I am still the farthest thing from grateful.

The strength and weight seems like nothing for a monster of such wit and caution, and Talon thrusts the assailant forward with a confidence I could never imagine for anyone else. He turns towards me and I see him mouthing words. An arrow strikes his shoulder, sudden and unanticipated, burrowing deep into muscle and tissue. I assume a third Noxian had been delayed, only to discover one comrade dead and the other two-to-one. An archer among the ledges of the mountainside had just shot him. I can see Talon gritting his teeth. I look upwards and angled, catching the glint of a decorated bow. I aim my own between the ledge and an extended rock formation, and I see them aiming at me as well. My head throbs. It's a fight of patience and aim, one triumphed before under worse circumstances. Bow versus crossbow in a challenge of distance and caution, fighting inconsistent winds and angles. I fire first, arm still slightly numb and eye shut from trickles of blood. I make quick work of the sniper, nonetheless, as the figure hits the ledge in a slump. Too easy, it seemed. Too predictable.

My head and arm scream. I wipe the blood from my face and brow with the round of my palm. I'm still shaking.

I turn too see that Talon has him. And yet he doesn't. They tread on fragile ground at the edge where one had lured the other. A trap, to which the victim had all too willingly walked in. Defensive and offensive go back and fourth without finality, one with a fractured arm and the other with an arrow protruding from his shoulder blade. The assailant is ready to strike, using offense to shove Talon over the edge. And yet the assassin turns the tide, allowing the weight he'd placed into his attack to haul him downwards, balance lost in braun and mass. Typical, easy, and cliche. But I imagine now was not the time for creativity; strictly necessity and survival.

The pommel of his axe slams heavily into the ground at Talon's feet, crumbling the ledge. The massive hand catches into diminished gravel as it breaks and alters the width of the road. I see what's coming next, even if it's distorted and spinning. I bolt forward out of reflex, blood just everywhere. I stride towards them as the massive man catches the dodging assassin's coat in a grip of desperation. They slide downwards in a very quick motion which I can hardly recall only moments later. But I have my temporary ally, no matter what occurred. I yank at Talon's wrist with both hands, grip firm into his skin, body crying. He has my wrist in a solid grip that has no intention of loosening. It would bruise later.

The assailant is gone and the Abyss looks so deep...begrudgingly so. At what point do you die during such a fall? Or do you witness your own innards blanketing the floor? Unconsciousness?

It suddenly occurs to me...

I have Talon's life in my palms, hanging by my frozen fingers. I would normally laugh. Why am I not laughing?

He looks up to me in this moment, hood at his shoulders and hair a mess of icy wind. Disheveled. His other arm is held uselessly at his abdomen, the broken remnants of an arrow still piercing through the fabric of his defenses. It must have hit just right to render the extremity useless, perfectly between his armor. Probably the archer's intention. Talon's smirk is so unnerving, sarcastic, and dry. I see his eyes despite his confidence in my decision. He's aware of it. He knows he's going to die. It's a solid stare of anger, frustration, remorse, and regret. A hardened glower that I am more than familiar with. But there is no fear. I respect that. He would understand if I let him go.

My arms scream. One static the other just a mess of red.

I need to let go. He slaughtered scouts I had taught and developed. People I thought family. He diminished my existence to a lie in a single evening, though I doubt I can force him to shoulder the blame. But he's killed everyone. And yet he saved my life only moments ago. He risked his own for the sake of my safety. Talon sees it. He sees my internal conflict and looks away. He's staring off to somewhere else while hanging by a trembling arm, muscles strained by the weight of his body. I'm seeing the monster that haunted my nightmares for so long at his weakest, entirely mortal. I'm witnessing the murderer I'd vowed to kill show acceptance and vulnerability. He is only human. But I don't know if I hate him anymore. I don't. It scares me. Even as I lift him up to the road, away from the Abyss, I am terrified. I am horrified.

I'm worthless.

He immediately stands and pulls his hood over his head, then yanks what's left of the arrow from his shoulder. The bleeding is so brief, probably frozen over. But he has blood about his entire front and I finally see the gaping wound that led him to so many mistakes. The wound his hand had been pressed to as he hung above death. A dagger, perhaps. He deserves it.

We stand there and collect ourselves, I imagine. Him physically, and myself emotionally. We exchange the briefest of glances, his own casual as though this were entirely usual. Like it was all a sane, reasonable event between colleagues. He must see my turmoil because his countenance is suddenly a mild, subtle uncertainty. Barely narrowed eyes and slightly parted lips. His are cracked and bleeding as well. Another reminder that he is just as human as I am.

I'm scared. I needed Valor beside me to guide my decision. Jarvan or Lux would have held my hand and loosened my grip. I wish my brother had a reliable hold upon my shoulder no matter what I chose. I saved him. I save my nightmare, rival, tormentor, and suspect. I gave him another chance. I allowed him to walk upon Valoran once again, giving away countless lives. I killed countless Demacians in only a single decision, balanced oddly upon the line of morally correct and blatant murder. My hands are useless, palm up and smeared crimson. My arms ache unnaturally. Even if I were fully healed, he'd be more than capable of killing me. I cannot undo this decision. I've finalized the fates of countless within a moment.

I would have gladly lowered myself to his level if only to rid him from this earth.

"Thank you..." He pauses, tone solid and expression once again a blank slate of seriousness. He's looking down to make eye contact, attempting to meet my inferior height. His eyes seem odd in the dark, but this closeness without the threat of death seemed almost otherworldly.

"...Quinn."

My name sounds like water off his tongue and I cringe as he addresses me. Am I suddenly his equal? Are we now friends? Allies? Companions? Does my very abrupt acceptance of the Noxian assassin make us both morally fucked? Enough to understand each other? I am bitter. I despise myself. I question ever decision I have ever made. I consider every possible outcome. I account every life, innocent or tainted, that has been accounted for as blood upon this man's hands. I question what I have done. I question who I am.

The wind blows and I tense visibly to fight the pressure. He stands there without disruption, solid in stance.

Prior to my injury I was certain of what I stood by. I knew precisely who I was. I made myself aware of my stature, name, and abilities more often than thought reasonable. Enough to put Jarvan to shame. I believed in the justice of Demacian law and the dire punishments that came with it. I knew where to aim and who to aim at without question. When to strike was never an issue. When to stand back had never once been indecisive. I was fully aware of whom I hated and those I held close to my heart. I knew exactly how I earned my spoils. I knew when I deserved them and when it was luxury. I could tell you exactly what I had faith in and why. I could describe every defining moment of my life, staring from my early childhood. Compared to the many lost and wandering without purpose or composure, I knew exactly who I was.

Now I doubt. All of it. Demacian system. My arm. My confidence. My morals. My mind. I never earned my place beside a general. I never carried my weight through potential sacrifice and talented success. I never held my rival at bay because we were matched. The skill and valor that they honor me for was a fluke. A mistake caught amid a political ploy, a Noxian coup.

Here I am, trusting the man I once claimed to despise more than Noxus itself, leading him away from his death. I saved a killer, only to realize that the driving, boiling hate I had once held for him dissipates like water to vapor. Suspended and forgotten. My stomach faces no enraged pain and my heart is steady without disruption. Even as I tear apart my life, staring him in the face, I feel no anxiety or rage. Not towards Talon. I am calm...despite my expression. I am controlled, even as my mind twists in screaming knots of self-loathing.

I no longer despise him. I can't. The only present person deserving of contempt is me.

"You're welcome...Talon."


	9. Touché

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: So another update very soon. It's quick, but still informative as far as the plot goes. I'm fixing and adding on buts to the story as I go. I had to do major edits to chapter six, by the way. Nothing huge, though. So the hate is forgotten, but not forgiven. She just needs a little reminder. Many thanks to **BlueIndolence** for inspiring me to further work with Valor. Love you guys. Peace.

P.S: PLEASE! Please go to my profile and _**vote** _on the pole at the top of the page. It will heavily impact the story. Thank you!

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**Chapter Nine: Touché**

* * *

Where's my pack? My knapsack? My belongings?

Over that edge. In the Abyss.

Dammit.

My arm hurts. The pain against my temple is aggressive and there are no potions save for the one on my belt. A little more than enough to dull the pain. He needs it more. I see that clearly. So I shove what's left in his direction, hopefully as bluntly as I had intended. My arm feels like needles as I thrust it forward, stunned by the movement. The other is nowhere near as bad as I'd thought, but it's the one that hurts the most. The armor saved me from any critical damage. Just a severely long gash that broke skin, nothing torn or removed. Thankfully.

I toss it off the ledge, carelessly. It stares back. The depth.

Why did I give it to _him_?

"What am I apparently unaware of?" I ask through chattering teeth because I want to know. I'm not grateful or surprised. I just want a general idea of what the hell is going on. He shouldn't be here. He has no reason to be here. I shouldn't be in danger. My life should not be up for bounty.

"We need a description."

"Of?"

"The man you executed." He's very straightforward when he's bleeding so much.

"Does it matter?" If it didn't he wouldn't be here.

"Swain thinks so."

"Fine."

I'm done arguing. I'm finished running or evading or asking questions. I have no intentions of anything else. I don't see the point. It's endless, this game of hawk and prey. But now it's just screwed in all directions, entirely backwards. I'll satiate this need for the truth as much as I possibly can, and then I'll work to better myself in all aspects. Because that's all I truly need to do. I want this behind me. I nearly died yet again, and now I realize that I'm capable enough. I saved myself this time. Not Valor, or Jarvan. I wasn't spared or allowed to live. I fought back, successfully.

He insists on accompanying me without even a word. I imagine he'd want the wound treated, as well. Chances of infection. Blood loss. Pain.

I begin to wonder if there had only been three Noxians. Because that wound he's sporting looked older than the battle I'd been losing. Nor was it something that looks worse than it actually is. Common sense says there had been four, one of which had landed a decent blow. However, experience tells me that there had been at least six. Because it'd take more than two to wound Talon. I would know.

So he had confronted four of the six, killing three and suffering a stab wound in the process. Then the archer had shot him mid-battle with the last one. So six assassins, sent to kill me, knew my whereabouts during an endeavor to the Freijord. Which was strictly political and diplomatic. Demacia has another spy, I assume. Not surprising.

* * *

The ice itself is less and less and we go north of the pass. The winds and weather are unchanged, but the valley we seek faces less snow than any other region is Freiljord. The brief greenery is pleasant but the leaves are stiff from the cold. The surrounding mountains are solid and rigid at the base, capped in the ice we'd recently trudged through. They reach higher elevations as we travel, creating a sort of canyon to walk through. Ashe's kingdom is closer. I see the landmarks I'd drawn in my journals, mostly ancient carvings into walls. We're close, and I'm relieved. But the rest of the journey is downward, leveled with the ravines her city lives upon. I can see the lights, distant. The day in nearly set and I intend to be down before nightfall.

He's taking it slow. I haven't spoken to him nor given him a second glance since we started moving. I'd like to say I'm simply preoccupied in my thoughts, though the truth is far more childish. I simply can't stand looking at the man who proved I'm not what I was. And after another mile of trekking uneven roads and rising snow, I finally conclude that I am not worthless or nothing. I am not at fault for saving his life. I am not cold blooded or indolent. I'm doing what I think is morally correct. I am living up to my own standards, as anyone would. I'm not concerned over the honor of the dead, nor the many more lives he'd threaten. I'm not urged to avenge or save or extinguish the threat. I'm preserving my own life and principles. After this mission, I'm making decisions for myself, not Demacia.

Talon is not struggling, but he's not keeping my pace. And I wonder if that's a good thing. I consider how quickly I can lose him in this weather, leave him behind. I can sense a blizzard brewing, a few hours off. Valor can't fly through heavy winds in the canyon; speculation based on past experience. His wings catch too much snow and he stiffens due to the cold. He'd have flown over the lower rangers behind Rakelstake. I finally turn around, and he can barely carry his own weight. He pauses, crouching to further examine his abdomen.

Sympathy...I'm beginning to question if I feel it or not. Because the sight is well deserved, but I find no pleasure or humor from his turmoil. Not as I would have before. Should I? What's changed so much that this isn't satisfying in any sense? And would I be in the right to aid him, or would I be thoughtless to continue forward?

It occurs to me that, despite my indecisiveness, he has to survive. If he dies on this mission, clearly to pursue me, then I would automatically be the perpetrator. I imagine that what is left of the Du Couteau lineage would follow his leads or personal arrangements. I'd be hunted. A situation I'd rather not endure in the near future.

My head hurts and it's _freezing_.

"You're bleeding heavily." I walk back and approach him out of self preservation. I'm no longer hesitant in his presence. I don't think he intends to kill me anymore. I haven't thought such since our exchange in the hospice. The tips of my fingers ache from icy stiffness.

"_Really_." He seem agitated and breathless, yet I could see his breath in clouds against the temperature. I would feel the same, in a similar situation. I don't say anything else, because for once I can relate. I've struggled against weather while stalling bleeding wounds. It didn't help that _he'd_ been the one to inflict them, but it did cause me to empathize. Said empathy was _terrifying_. I was sympathizing with a murderer. With scum.

It's the first time I've seen Talon frustrated. To watch him outside of that calm, collected persona was interesting. To see him face physical limitations calmed me, because that meant he wasn't untouchable, and he wasn't invincible. Far from comforting, but enough to further this...relationship...as temporary allies. Or hostage and holder. Whatever.

His jaw is clenched. I can see the muscles tense despite the concealment of his hood. And for a moment, all I see is Caleb. I force myself out of a very brief daze. I was gone for at least a second, enamored by the similarity. His eyes are looking beyond what's directly in front of him. I know that expression, simply because I've worn it so many times before. He's assessing the previous confrontation, determining what he did wrong. Probably analyzing every move he made, criticizing his angle, stance or judgement. He's just a man. It helps.

He has a cloth pressed against the wound, tied about his abdomen poorly. The blood is black against the fabric, seeping through and freezing over. I don't want to touch him. I don't. But I ask him to stand straight, keeping still and using the wall as leverage. I reach forward, examining the point of entry with a critical eye. He hesitates, but obliges without a word. He's looking at me; it makes me uncomfortable. I'd prefer he not, because staring allows thoughts to wander. How he could kill me. If he should. How much my headpiece or jacket would sell for.

My arm hurts again. I'm attempting to block out the pain. I'm shivering, teeth still clattering. He seems fine...used to this cold.

"Where's the bird?" He asks and waits patiently, but I realize his breathing isn't right. And neither is his posture or color. My own personal dilemmas have caused me to neglect his actual physical health. It's a concern. I pull back the cloth of his shirt, eyeing the dense vest glued to his skin with dried blood. I raise the hardened leather to firmly press against the flesh at the slit of torn muscle and clots. This shiv was long and curved, but the strength behind it had not been enough to deeply penetrate the vest, skin, and critical organs. The wound reaches between two of the lower ribs on the right side, angled to barely puncture the edge of the liver. It was sloppy. No guidance or knowledge of biology involved. Luck. I re-bandage his torso with a piece of my snow shawl and his belt, forcing pressure. It's a decent tourniquet, and should assist the heavy bleeding.

Still fatal.

"He's around." The response is absentminded. I tuck my shoulder beneath his arm, forcing him to lean and walk despite any limitations. I recall my several retreats through the woods, using trees and Valor as desperate leverage in hopes of seeing Demacia. I recall holding my wounds and gagging at the smell of blood or death. Feet blistered and sore due to unnatural stumbling...because of him. I blink away the memories and frustrations.

My joints feel frozen.

"We have to move. Your liver might have been damaged. It should clot, but not in enough time." I need him to live. I need him to return to Noxus, unscathed and breathing. My life will not be endangered simply because he can't tolerate a stab wound. Katarina would be relentless in avenging both her father and significant other. Maybe even eager. I plan to live after this endeavor.

"Rakelstake is further north. Should take us an hour at most."

Talon doesn't respond.

So much irony. The man who stabs being stabbed for a poetic change of pace. Who is now being rescued by the woman he previously stabbed, once set on ending his life for stabbing others. A truly twisted plot. Filled with blood, gore, and pain. I wonder how if feels...to have a taste of his own medicine.

* * *

Relief overcomes me as the distant lights shine closer. It's warmer here, but still chilly. Construction up the walls and homes embedded into the rock. Stairs crafted of wood and stone, elegant against the mountainsides. I see the red triangles of boats ahead, barely visible from our location. Valor should be here, somewhere. Unless he took to the skies in search of me, concerned over my delay. But I see him, thankfully, circling overhead the entrance to the city and fighting the forced currents that rip through the mountains. He finds me, because the cry is shriek and his downward dive is as swift as he aims for us. Eager to see me again, and probably relieved at my safe arrival.

So many people.

He halts mid air, veering back at the sight of my company. The reaction is abrupt and confused. His wingspan stretches outward with tension, talons readied in case of attack. But he assesses the situation, I can see it as he calms himself. He still expresses distrust and despise, no matter his physical responses. I call him downward with a whistle, cautious of the thinning crowds walking by. The community is far more lively than I recall, but only a few wandering eyes watch in our direction. It makes me uneasy.

He comes in close, exhibiting a nasty glower to my left.

I tell him discreetly to inform Ashe of our presence. He bats the air a yard or so ahead of us, recognizing my injury on one arm, and the unwelcome individual upon the other. I'm ignoring Talon, but I force myself to glance in his direction only to ensure he's still conscious. His free hand is at that wound. One session from a physician should mend it enough for battle.

We approach the dock and await the next boat. I ask him to straighten up, attempting to make our appearance more casual.

"How does the other end feel?" I smile against his shoulder, adjusting his weight. He leans off, standing more on his own.

"If I wanted to know, I would have just asked you." He actually huffs a laugh.

"I could have just stabbed you myself." I mumble it under my breath, watching the boat approach at a steady pace. I wave my free hand, seeking the guide's attention with a friendly smile. He takes all of his weight off my shoulder. I nearly lose balance because of it, but he steadies me with a firm hand upon my forearm. He uses a knuckle to wipe staling blood from my temple up into my hair. Less conspicuous, but pointless. I clear my throat, gesturing to his shirt. He looks down at his torso, entirely soaked in red, and sighs.

"Touché."

* * *

It's heated in these rooms. I don't know or understand how, but I feel myself defrost. I pace about, working the stiffness from my body. The cold had retreated. I'm relieved yet again.

"I will see her when I please. Her appearance is the last thing I care about."

I hear Ashe approaching her vestibule, raised tone disregarding and agitated. The doors swing open by her own hands and she strides in, immediate and with grace. She enters swiftly, eyes laced with frustration.

"Ashe, majesty." I greet her, a slight bow. Her hospitality is always warm. Talon was taken to their hospice immediately after stepping off from the boat and into Rakelstake. His resistance was weak and yet still formidable. The arm that had supported him was asleep. It feels as it had during battle, when it went limp. Needles. But the feeling is slowly coming back. That's a relief.

"Quinn!" Her voice is still raised in welcome and her arms are extended wide. "Are you well?"

"As always," I say.

She smiles at me, elegant and empowering. Her expression softens and it seems she's not as aggravated. Her hair is tied back and she wears her hunting gear, returning from her weekly endeavor. I mimic the gesture, accepting her embrace with confidence. This woman, a capable ally, shares the demeanor of the common people. She has never had belittled servants or underlings; only allies and assistants. So why are there two men behind her like lap dogs, awaiting her attention? One in entirely foreign armor, neither matching nor similar.

"Valor insisted on searching for you. You were only a daybreak late at the time. His loyalty is staggering." She grins, humored. "He had me worried."

She sets a hand upon the head of Valor, who perches himself over her forearm as he often does to me. It is a rare gesture he usually does not allow, but he accepts it as praise, and sighs before addressing my situation. He inquires over my well-being, curiosity peaked at the news of "my companion" resisting treatment. He asks such with a very hidden undertone of caution and concern. It's his own way of knowing little things. I send him a very brief glance, aware and understanding. The feathers that'd stood upon his back and neck smooth out. He seems calmer, more lax. It's a far better reaction than what I had anticipated.

"Queen Ashe-" She holds a hand up to silence the man behind her, then ignores him. She rolls her eyes at me, smirking in the process. I smile.

"I hope your journey was not too unpleasant. Bandits? Winters Claw?"

"Bandits, in fact." I lie for conversation's sake. She needn't worry. She has far larger issues.

"You seemed to handle them well." Her chuckle is airy and she jokes lightly. She reaches out and examines the gash in my arm, having slowly crusted over.

"We suffered a few wounds, but their numbers were more than anticipated." I lie again. I may tell her the truth at a later date, but I do not trust her company.

"I've only known you to travel with Valor. Do tell, who is this foreigner alongside Demacia's Wings? I assume he's unaware of Avarosian etiquette, considering his refusal to be made well." Her voice is royal in a sense, yet rugged in another. The grit is obvious, but she is coy in her joking while sharing Valor's curiosity.

These men among us in the main hall are unfamiliar faces that I cannot trust. I assume the one to her left is her advisor. The design of his armor is native to this region, obviously so. But the other is not Avarosian. In fact he is far from it. He is seemingly a representative, frustrated by Ashe's neglect and discourteous treatment. I examine him from the corner of my eye, inconspicuous. The insignia upon his broach: Noxian. I smile politely, removing my headpiece and finding it crusted in old blood. I stiffen my hair with a careless hand before replacing it, sighing. She sympathizes and laughs off the display. I'm just buying time to think of a believable response.

"My brother, _Caleb_, has joined me to ensure my safety. I assure you that he's as much reliable as he is capable. In a good sense."

Valor's caution returns. He's watching me, sternly. The once relieved, grateful attitude has become rigid, eyes scanning our surroundings incessantly. Ashe only smiles, her eyes portraying her absolute understanding. They dart to her side, seeking the Noxian, and return to my attention with a narrowed warning. She knows my brother is long passed. I appreciate this queen more than she can comprehend.

"Well then!" She grins, hands clasped together in mock delight. "As stubborn as he seems, he does require aid. The amount of blood I witnessed dictates heavy wounds. Perhaps you can convince him to allow my physicians to apply a sterilizer?"

"I'll see him immediately. I have my own concerns, as well." I hold up my arm for display and she shakes her head, amused.

"I'll have what you require prepared. Room and board, food and...perhaps new clothing." She averts her attention to my attire. "Then we shall discuss the terms of our engagement to this war."

She instructs her advisor to show me to the hospice. Then leaves with a Noxian on her heels.

Creators bless that woman.

* * *

The shelves are stocked with herbs and medicines. Potions and things of magic I could never comprehend. A nice picture of Rakelstake adorns the wall above the cabinets and wash bowls. The healer removes his shirt, which was a struggle all in its own, before attempting to apply the cleaning solution. I wait until she storms out, infuriated by his rude comments and resistance. I lock the door behind her, securing all exits before addressing the moron sitting on an examination table in the middle of the room. Shirtless and still bleeding everywhere.

Valor is perched on a shelf towards the corner...glowering. They're just staring at each other menacingly. I feel like I'm observing adolescence.

I cross my arms, because I honestly don't know what else to do with them.

"You're going to get us killed." Can I actually scold this man? "The Avarosian consider the refusal of medicinal aid rude and taboo. Your behavior is attracting unwanted attention."

"Does it matter?" He asks plainly, nonchalant. I walk to the farthest shelf, finding something similar to the mending solution used on my arm. It attatched the skin after the muscles and tissue were reattached by magic. I don't remember the bone. I'm glad I don't.

"A Noxian diplomat is currently in Rakelstake. I'm assuming he works for Swain, and is fully aware of the bounty on your head. So _yes_, it does."

Their bandages are strange. The texture is off. It's not cotton, or lambskin. Hemp? No. Not at all. Some kind of thin hide. Valor digs his talons into the cloth on my back, looming over my shoulder, surveying my actions. My headache returns. I realize that it never actually went away.

"How would you know about the bounty?" He asks, unamused. Valor's watching him, expressionless, as I approach the table. His hand is still pressed against the wound, solid. I force it away, grabbing at the cleaning solution to my right. It's literally whiskey, hopefully with a high alcohol percentage. I need to talk to Ashe about her "physicians".

The bird says he looks better bleeding, and I smile briefly at the comment.

"I analyzed you for two years of my life. You don't think I'm aware of the price on your head?" If his survival didn't parallel my own I would have considered turning him in. Or leaving him in the mountain pass. Valor suggests both, as though he'd read my mind.

"Flattered." Talon smirks distastefully at me, and it's aggravating. But there's no hate...and I can't stand it. It permeates me with anxiety.

"Katarina's hushed attempts to overthrow Swain put you in a bad place for Noxian law. Why hasn't the Grand General executed her for treason?"

Valor asks me if I'm alright. He says I'm paled, and my shoulders are rigid. I wave him off, claiming anxiety and curiosity to myself, but I feel like something is clawing at my stomach. Trying to get out. My frustrations are bundled under my skin like a thick layer, and that self-loathing I'm pushing to overcome feels like my skin is on fire. But it's not the hate I'm familiar with. It's not that boiling blood in my chest I'd become accustom to, directed at Talon. It's nowhere near that lowly despise that consumed and controlled me for so long. I wonder if this is a good thing...to not hate him. To only hate myself because of everything I let go wrong. All of the evidence that lay in front of me had been overlooked and denied because we were suddenly elite. We were the best of Jarvan's army. So no, I never questioned myself. We were Demacia's Wings.

Valor sets his head upon my shoulder, slouching into my back. He's heavier than I recall.

"Katarina's a crucial asset to Noxian militia, as well as a symbol. Killing her would result in the uproar of thousands."

He's glaring at the bottle in my hand as he speaks, darkened glass with no label. But the smell isn't foreign to me. I know what I'm doing. I pour some over the gash in my arm before urging him to take it. I seem to be the only one who's hesitant in such close proximity. There's a little knife on the table by the door. He could use it. Valor is staring aggressively again, attention perked as Talon reaches for the solution. I would think he'd snatch it, but he takes it from my grip without hostility. He can do it himself. I'm not motherly, and neither is Valor. We both monitor the process, nonetheless, as he cleans and sterilizes the literal crevice between his ribs. His liver should be clotted by now. He's fine. Even the color has returned to his skin.

Dried blood runs within the alcohol. Old memories of bar fights.

The mending solution is for the temporary joining of parted skin and muscle. It holds like glue until everything is properly repaired. Then it dissolves into sweat, water, blood, etc. He applies it and I wait for it to dry. I carry this specific solution wherever I go. Had my belongings not fallen victim into the Abyss, then perhaps we'd be in a more ideal situation. One where Valor is causing the wounds, not watching me fix them.

"All of them against Swain? Isn't that what you want?" I quickly realize why he would never push the suggestion. Why Katarina's sacrifice would never be worth it in his personal opinion. It's obvious, and I'm not daft enough to not understand.

"Not in exchange for her life."

He loves her. This monster _loves_ her.

I hum something smugly, applying the tourniquet. Valor sees what I mean and makes a throaty noise of humored mocking. Talon's ready to strangle the bird and I find it amusing. He'll need help with the bandaging part. It's far more difficult alone. He loves something...It makes him even more human than I thought.

"Stand please." He obliges. I ring the cloth about his middle enough to cover the wound twice. I tighten it enough to be uncomfortable. His mild discomfort appeases my more vengeful mentality, and Valor slaps my arm with a scolding wing. It's not wrong. Is it? Or maybe he just doesn't want it consuming me.

"What do you intend to do?" Talon asks, examining the belt I used to pressure the wound. I see the red on his arm, from the arrow that'd evaded his armor. He apparently thinks it's fine.

"About what?"

"The current situation."

Valor removes himself from my shoulder-blade, stretching his wings atop the closer shelf. He knocks over a jar of liquid. I glance in that direction, curious. He's a ruckus around fragile things.

"I told her your name is Caleb. A relative from Demacia."

"Why?" His clothing is trashed. He should be thankful it's not his usual gear. I'm nearly in tears, looking at the gashes and rips in my preferred attire. I realize he hasn't has his hood on this entire time. I genuinely didn't notice.

"Why what?"

"Why that name?" He makes eye contact before raising his hood. It's serious. I'm uncomfortable.

But why did I use that name? The first name to come to mind?

"First name to come to mind." I'm very confident in my own speculations. Valor knows I'm full of shit.

"Your brother's?"

It doesn't offend me. In fact, I anticipated it. I hear Valor's raised tone, both sudden and loud. He's yelling at the assassin to mind his own life, with a more crude terminology. Not like Talon can understand him, but I don't know if I agree. We share a profession. Our job is to hunt. Valor should know, as well. I imagine he's just protective, and I think it's funny.

"How would you know?" I ask, only slightly defensive. But I recall my brother's face, remembering how we'd cross the bridge over the river to the east. He killed a bobcat once, with that spear I'd made him. We were young and resilient. I'm not young anymore...but I admit I'm beyond resilient.

"I analyzed you for two years of my life. You don't think I know all about your family?" His tone is flat. It's threatening in a mocking sense. And I have to snag on Valor's wing as he bolts towards the middle of the room, aiming to injure. Talon's veering back, gripping at the little knife on the table. Ready.

I pull Valor into me, calming him with a hand over the back of his neck and another restraining him. I tell him it's fine. I look up, warning my usual adversary, seeing his expression. It stops me, and Valor does also. And everything's just..._wrong_.

Caleb had a ruggedness about him. He was strong enough for the both of us, as well as made for the earth. He had stronger arms, a defined structure for someone so young, and a mess of wind-blown hair. I see some of those little aspects in very few people I meet. And sometimes I see them in myself. But the way Talon clenches his jaw has me staring. It sends me back to serious times, looking to my brother for guidance. The first time my father struck me, Caleb struck back in my defense. The day the bobcat killed our dog, I crafted the spear and he killed it. The time he found a dead body in the woods by our home, we both dug a secret hole to protect our mother.

It's similar enough to distract me. But everything else is painfully different. I come back to reality, eyes wet, head throbbing. There's still no hate.

"Touché."


	10. Temporary

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: I apologize for the delayed update. I experienced some serious writer's block. I hope you all enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Temporary**

* * *

I've begun bits of a journal from papers present on the desk in the hospice. I took them when we made our leave, more indiscreet than I should have been.

I am clean, but far from rested. The entirety of the night we arrived comprised of Talon's injuries and Valor's snide comments. The morning came harshly and without delay, breaking the horizon in a very pale but powerful display. Yet another sum of hours without sleep. The effects lay like bruises beneath my eyes.

I further treat the gash across my arm, wrapping it securely. Their bandages are so odd; they nearly itch. There hasn't been any bleeding, which sets my concerns aside. It's healing nicely. As soon as I'm capable, I send a messenger bird to Jarvan. Valor and I had argued briefly earlier. He says I neglect our teamwork and health just to let a pompous prince know I'm alive. If I hadn't sent him off, we may be in a more ideal situation. He was right, of course. But there are instances where I trust his abilities and his alone. There would be no interception of my message with Valor. Too many instances where I've watched a normal messenger be shot out of the sky. He's more capable than that. More trustworthy.

He brought back a letter from Jarvan IV, tucked away in his armor. I'll read it later.

The clothes provided are that of a hunter's. The leather is comfortable, though more revealing than I'd prefer. It lacks sleeves, and the high neck is a bit constricting. The waist is higher than I would care for. The pants are long and tight against the skin, durable for mountainous terrain. The boots are undoubtedly my favorite part. The north is widely known for its quality in boots. This is undoubtedly a casual and efficient style in the Capital of Freljord. Hunting? Yes. Assassinations? No.

I spend the rest of daybreak freshening my appearance. I remove the hair beneath my arms as well as anything that is slight over my face. I adjust the precision of my eyebrows, though I must thank my mother for a decent arch. I have always refused to remove anything from my arms or legs. It assists the senses necessary for my profession, and I have so light of hair that it goes unnoticed.

Even so, I doubt Avarosian culture cares. But the Demacian in me urges a cleaner, more appropriate disposition out of respect. I see how Garen winces at me when I return from elongated operations, unable to maintain an acceptable physical appearance. It involves social standing and basic politeness. To look upon royalty without an effort to seem hygienically composed is insulting. The rules of Demacian nobility have given me a terrible reputation among many of the houses, having presented myself immediately upon return from months abroad. It is comforting to know that Jarvan couldn't care less.

It is morning when Ashe requests my presence. The guard informed me that I'd be seen days sooner than anticipated. The Queen had unpredicted issues to attend to, and would rather not have me wait. I was escorted without Valor, left to wonder if Talon had finally returned to Noxus. High hopes, I suppose. Me being optimistic. I think about his body hanging over that edge. How quickly he'd fall straight out of my life and to his death. But the thought doesn't please me, as it should. No, it bothers me. All of those people he's murdered. The scouts and messengers. I only blame myself now. I don't understand why.

* * *

The meeting is informal, far from anything Demacian or Piltovian. It is not a joining of ten advisors and a council, with seven voices bickering. Nor does it involve a table or useless, fake pleasantries. It is simply Ashe, beside Tryndamere, and a single factotum to take note of the appeal. It's far more practical, though I am fully aware that it was rushed.

I feel no anxiousness as I stand before them. I have done this many times before, in front of far more people. I part my lips to speak, chapped, split, and raw from the cold. The room is warm. My skin is heated.

"Majesties of the Kingdom of Freljord. I humbly appeal for your audience." I bow, rigid into my introduction. Head throbbing still, but not as much. Ashe has her eyes upon me like gemstones, reflective in their focus. She wears something far more royal than what I'm accustomed to. It's off-putting.

"It is allowed." Her voice is not hostile. She is not offensive or haughty. Her king is beside her, lax in his massive posture. His hands are always in fists, fingers curled.

Their thrones interest me. Carved of stone or mineral, matching the mountainside. Solid blocks of heavy burden, decorated with Avarosian patterns to appear sightly.

I straighten out and speak, recalling the letter of request. The one I'd lost to the Abyss in my pack. The one I read once, perhaps even twice. It had slipped my mind until now. "As a messenger of the Demacian council, I shall speak on their behalf, as instructed. I have ventured from the borders of my homeland with the intention of proposing an alliance, all and any benefits provided to Rakelstake. As the founders and rulers of this advanced, civilized capital, King Jarvan III humbly requests the aid of the Avarosian in a time of need."

I'm winging it.

But I see their faces, suddenly judgmental. Immediately disinterested. Ashe has a sudden tension in her cheekbones, in sync with her rage. I see her clenched jaw. I recall Talon, and then Caleb. My mind wanders as I continue to listen. They've made up their mind. I see that clearly. No matter what I say, they will not hear me, nor my king. This was pointless.

"For what purpose?" Tryndamere inquires boredly, weight shifted to his right. He sits in that throne so uncomfortably. He's meant for battle. You can see it in his eyes.

"Demacia requires greater numbers to gain the upper hand in our war," I declare it. "We intend to vanquish the Noxian threat from our lands, as well as preserve your own."

"A late, but catching proposal. What assets do you offer in reference to my people?" She is being respectful, feigning interest. Making the factotum work to write the documentation. But the word 'late' rolls from her tongue unkindly, wrapped in distaste.

"Aid in the quarrels of Freljord, ready upon request. The development of a navigated and sustained trade route, which involve gracious imports, as well as exports. An increase in economic structure from the settlement of Demacian goods and services. And defense against the threats of your farther territories. I have witnessed, firsthand, the destruction of Avarosian strongholds and villages. They will have the necessary protection of well-trained Demacian guards, stationed to reside there."

A slight silence falls upon the hall. The throne room is filled with contemplation, falsified as though necessary. They do not move. Her hands are folded lightly in her lap, expression vacant of any emotion. Tryndamere is bored. Her behavior does not surprise me. A figure of importance must have principle and control. I commend it.

"The Freljord refuses Demacia's proposition." Damn it. I saw it coming, and yet my curiosity overwhelms me. I maintain a level tone, mimicking the countenance of royalty. I must know.

"May the council inquire as to why?" I truly must.

"Your king seeks out aid simply because he has abused Piltover's resources. Now they desire neutrality due to dwindling numbers. We will not tolerate the same neglect and mistreatment. Our committed armies thrive. Enough to fulfill the positions of aid which Demacia proposes. Our ill-will towards Noxus is minuscule in comparison to the conflict and distrust between our nations. Demacia's neutrality during the Barbarian Pacification Campaigns made their standing all too clear. Their actions, even more so."

I know what she speaks of. I am not daft. But I must clarify. The council needs the harsh criticisms of their desired allies. Because she's right. Piltover was bullied into our war, and in turn they were decimated and left with only half of their battle-capable population. When Vi came to see me, early in my recovery, I could see the conflict in her expression. The mourning of every Piltovian.

"The council would like those actions specified."

"The murder and abuse of innocent refugees, seeking bloodless land. The blame put upon Avarosian government despite our lack of wrongdoings. The refusal to assist in a dispute that had impacted both Avarosian and Demacian territories. Finally, the lack of action in halting the threat which had burdened so many, with or without Avarosian militia," she responds so clearly. Her voice is as cold as the ice that surrounds her lands. Her hands are tense with anger, set upon the sides of her throne.

A lack of action. How ironic.

Tryndamere straightens, observing me in a way I find uncomfortable. He reminds me of Jarvan IV in so many ways. And yet I can name no similarities.

He speaks, voice a low boom that ripples through the stiffened air. "The Avarosian are a society built upon mature, peaceful methods of alliance. Demacia has shown us nothing but childish behavior, seen in the tantrums of your prince, and violence, present in the bloodshed by your king."

Jarvan IV's tantrums. It takes everything in me not to scoff out a dry laugh.

"Has Demacia never proven themselves to the Avarosian? The defense of Piltover? Their place and side within the Rune wars?" I will argue. I always argue. And yet so often do I find myself defending what people call hypocrisy. Their words mimic Talon's, just elongated and more detailed.

"Not in the slightest," she says so with a suddenly hostility. Not pointed, but broad.

Tryndamere continues on as an extension of her voice. "Hypocrisy, delusion, egotistical action, selfish intent, wrongful judgement, useless death. All present within any 'decent' political maneuver, which left Demacia superior. We witnessed the innocent of Noxus die simply for living. Women beaten and raped, men severed limb from limb, children impaled...all at the hands of Demacian militia. Demacian law considered it justified, simply because they were Noxian, living in a time of war."

This is foreign to me. This can't be true. The men under Garen and Jarvan IV are the very few unquestionable loyalists of our Capital. They obey orders as though drones, born for that purpose, following a format based upon their generals. War was atrocious. Demacia is a city-state which sacrifices its morals and beliefs to purify the wrongdoings of the unjust. That's the excuse they would give. Their only response. But women, children...caught within the conflict. We are far better than that. Our invasion into Noxus had been unsuccessful. I'd not been there. I'd been scouting outer territories. So I assume that I will never know the truth. The actual, legitimate, truth.

Ashe parts her lips, inhaling the brief chill that moves the air from the massive window. "The audacity your council has to request aid from an abused rival is astonishing. Your king is a child at play with soldiers and swords, unknowing of the cuts upon his hands. We do not toy with children, dear Quinn, nor his imaginary empire."

Children..._children_.

The factotum is writing away. I see him from the corner of my eye.

"Then I find my business within the Kingdom of Freljord concluded. I thank you for seeing me so early into my arrival." I express the slightest of smiles, bending respectfully and stepping back. My hand is set upon my heart, the other at the arch of my back. The leather of these clothes is stiff.

"As we were left to fend for ourselves, Demacia shall fight alone. Go in peace, scout. You show us a respect we will surely never have from your people again." He raises a dismissive hand, a politeness present that I'd never thought him to have. But he has not complimented me, nor my behavior. There is no praise in what he discloses. I am insulted by a hidden truth. Or perhaps I am insulted by blatant lies.

I have so many questions. And yet, I have no one to ask.

* * *

He won't leave my side. It's disconcerting on many levels of personal space. He'd been waiting outside of the throne room, as though I'd only been inside for five minutes. To think I'd assumed Talon gone. How foolish of me.

Valor is in my room, awaiting my return. And as we depart from my meeting, we pass that man. The one who'd been pestering Ashe, stepping on her heels the night before. The Noxian diplomat. He stares, not obviously, and exposes something akin to observation in his countenance. A brief movement, face tilted barely in our direction as he walks to the throne. A younger gentleman, handsome, refined, with a rose-like tattoo crawling up his neck. Elongated eye contact. Obsidian so dark I cannot define his pupils. I'm forced to break it, turning away from the unwanted exchange. Talon has a sudden grip on my arm, pulling me forward at a quicker pace. His hand feels odd. It's second nature to develop a sense of danger within close proximity. I nearly hit him.

We make haste to my guest room. It bothers me that he'd led the way, entirely knowing of where I'd intended to sleep. The guard looks at me, skeptical. But I smile, assuring him unlike some forced hostage, and he opens it in greeting. Talon throws a nasty glare, either offended or just in a particular mood. Valor's head perks at the sound of opening doors. He's laying upon the bed, nestled comfortably. He's up, swiftly, staring down our company. Feathers standing, neck rigid.

I have Valor hovering over one shoulder, and now I have Talon seeming to loom over the other. In between their constricting behavior, they exchange looks of distaste or intolerance of one another. It seems endless, ranging from implied insults translated through my conversation to attempted swipes of aggression. I've never seen a subtle quarrel last so long. Nor have I known Valor to acknowledge anyone so...thoroughly.

The bird looks to me, expectant. He cocks his head, impatient. He wants to know how it'd gone. He refuses to attend these sorts of diplomatic meetings. Simply because he cannot stand the polite terms and stillness of people he hardly knows. Valor likes Ashe, which is unusual, but his fidgeting prevents good behavior as witness to royalty. I've tried, really.

"It didn't take," I say.

_Demacia will fight alone. _The words are engrained into my memory. A phrase I will never forget. Valor voices his displeasure. Multiple inquiries. Offense and outrage. He's exposing how I feel, and I find how similar we've become endearing. I remember our youth. Smaller wings, softer eyes. I'd blinked through our progress. I hardly recognize myself, much less him.

"They had no intentions of an alliance." Talon speaks, earning our attention. We've been here for perhaps a single day and already I'd like to curl up and sleep.

"It was a high probability. It holds no impact over my reputation." I admit it because it's true. Despite the warm relationship I have with Ashe, her blatant dislike for Demacian politics is obvious in her gross sneers that accompany the topic. The woman rules endless miles of territory, yet she still makes childish gagging noises when discussing Jarvan IV. I knew she'd deny it, deep down. And yet I came here, hopeful, simply because I was ordered to do so. Disappointment is not what bothers me.

"A fact." Talon responds, monotonous. He's rubbing at the arrow wound in his shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was doing so. He should have treated it. I snatch the journals on my desk, throwing them upon the bed. My head in throbbing yet again. I adjusted my headpiece, hoping it will alleviate the pressure. Valor leaps into the sheets, wings spread, hogging pillows. He nearly knocks over a bowl of roasted seeds on the nightstand.

"Based on?" I ask because I have no choice not to. Maybe he can answer the questions I have. He's never seemed to favor or despise people by their origins. Talon leans against the wall, concealing his appearance. I notice he's purchased a new hood. Or stolen it. Whichever. I suppose if you're going to brood, you must do so mysteriously.

Valor says he's a diva. I laugh at that. It makes everything suddenly uncomfortable.

The Noxian is glowering at me, as though a parent warning their child. But who was he to me? No one. A rival. An enemy who has forced a temporary truce upon us. We are far from friends. The farthest thing possible. Allies, for the moment. But this is a relationship born strictly out of desperation.

Talon continues, annoyed. "Avarosian history. Demacian politics. You call them savages, maintaining distrust. They call you hypocrites, avoiding diplomacy."

It's become agitating, admitting that he's right. But he's speaking far more now than he ever has, and it catches my attention more than I'd like to admit. I'm listening, and I cannot determine if it's a good or bad situation.

"I don't call anyone anything." I mumble because I'm not even sure, and Valor says something under his breath. I don't hear it, but a coy look crosses his eyes and I know it involves our temporary companion. Again something insulting.

"You're more confident than I remember." He's staring at the bird, hostile. I don't know who he's referring to. It could honestly be either of us.

It would be true no matter who it was directed at. Valor for voicing his displeasure so blatantly and myself for overcoming what had once frozen me in fear. I don't know how it's developed so far. From a man I once despised, to self-loathing, to indifference towards anyone but myself and Valor. From vengeance, to recovery, to self-preservation. I can't say which was more fueling. But I am driven, none the less. He's changed me, and I'm uncomfortable to admit it.

I've found the phrase 'I hate you' at the tip of my tongue so often now, and yet I hesitate each time. I don't say it simply because it's not true. I no longer hold that grudge or weight. I refuse to submit to Talon in any way, even if it involves despising him. That anger that had eaten me is still haunting in several ways. Being free of it...of _him_...it's beyond liberating. I desire only for myself, and I am slowly letting go of the guilt from the dead. I will do what's needed to ensure I thrive and re-earn my title. Chasing an impossible feat will get me nowhere. Valor had agreed with me upon discussing it. He says I'm losing it...losing grip of my duties beyond Demacia.

My mind is reeling recently. My head still aches with all of this new information. I feel scattered.

"Have you eaten?" I ask him because I have yet to. Avarosian food never appealed to me. Ionian, perhaps. But I can tell I'm lagging, so I eat handfuls of the roasted seeds for the protein. Valor picks at them. They hit my stomach a bit like needles. I haven't eaten since the day I left Demacia.

"Why would it matter?"

"It's a yes or no question."

"I don't need to." What an ass. We've trained our bodies to operate perfectly without sustenance. It doesn't mean we won't starve.

A silence passes between the three of us. I occupy myself in packing the very few belongings I have. There's a knapsack hanging on the closet door, likely a gift from Ashe. A painting of the Gelid Vortex beckons my interest, hung above the dresser. I cross my arms, head still pounding, before I remove my headpiece entirely. My hair is stiff at the top from being confined for hours now. It aches my scalp as it unrolls down my neck. I haven't cut it in such a long time. I need to.

"Why am I a target?" I ask as I run my fingers through stiffened roots. My hair is clean from the morning, but it dried in place. Another reason to cut it all off. The unwanted company is rifling through my journals. He glances at me briefly, judging my disposition.

"Your name is well known among the generals."

"In what way?" I ask, sounding far more offended than I'd planned. I talk between mouthfuls of seeds. I'm not taking him seriously.

"The Du Couteau household is the most influential family within Noxius." He says it while reading the journals. I don't bother being defensive. He was present for most of it. "Cassiopeia, despite her frequent absences from the Capital, maintains a strong network of spies dedicated to Noxus. A portion of her connections lay within Demacia's walls."

"Inevitable." I can see that easily. Our own spies lay in wait, seemingly dedicated Noxian soldiers. Valor makes an agitated noise, flapping his wings to spread the rest of the papers to the floor. He seems pleased with himself. Talon, not so much.

"The evidence you provided was handed directly to Katarina. She informed her kin, who mistakenly used her spies to obtain official documents regarding the execution directly out of Demacia."

"How does this involve my reputation to your generals?" It doesn't, so far. He hasn't answered my question.

"The agent entrusted with the documents was discovered to be a double, loyal to LeBlanc." LeBlanc. An ancient and popular name, though information on her is rare to come by. An advisor to Jericho Swain, as far as I understand.

But it makes sense, suddenly. My position within the Frostbacks was unknown beyond a certain group of people. My location would be impossible to confirm without the specified route. So how would assassins know where to intercept? Only nobility and law knew where I was headed. My hands are shaking, suddenly. I drop seeds which scatter over the ridges of bed sheets. I replace my headpiece and hair, swallowing to calm the agitated storm in my stomach. I have to warn Jarvan. I have to.

"During a classified, diplomatic mission to the Freljord, they knew exactly where to find me." He nods once, confirming my suspicions. Valor is atop my welcoming forearm, talons loose to prevent broken skin. But he feels it, also. I see it in how rigid he is. His eyes are piercing Talon with a sharp seriousness. The threat of our own kind has raised his feathers. The betrayal of the people we work for. One or many, we don't know. Simple guards or assistants were anticipated, but someone so close to the king?

"It indicates a member of Demacia's council."

I know that. I've figured it out. And it sickens me to my very core. I feel nauseated, throat tense against the bile that threatened to come up. Jarvan is in danger. Or is he? Is he? What if it is Jarvan IV? The prince who never returned from his capture; a feeble spy in his place. No. Absolutely impossible. No one can mimic Jarvan. Not even LeBlanc. I know him too well. I love-

"Quinn." He says my name, I stutter. He's holding that injury. It reminds me of my chance to let go. But where would I be if I had? If I had killed Talon?

"So Swain knows that we're the ones who arrested and detained the imposter, prevented his public execution, and killed him." I admit such easily because it's the only definitive truth. It's the only fact we have in this entire situation. Valor shifts his wings, uncomfortable. He bats his feathers at the air, agitated.

"I can identify the man we executed. It's safe to assume that the specifics they think I know could endanger their ploy. Which is why they want us." I don't sound confident. I don't.

"We need a sketch of the executed individual." Talon refers to himself and the Du Coteaus. His arms are crossed again. But the way he says it is off. His tone is not sincere and I wonder what exactly he's keeping from me. We know each other without knowing each other at all. I can tell when he's bluffing.

"What's the real reason you were following me?" I ask, thinking of the axe in my arm. Thinking of the assassin and then Darius. Considering death and wounds and agitation. The blood in the snow. The blood on Talon's clothes. Looking down in to the Abyss.

"Katarina," he says. Simply put, no beating around the bush. He's honest, eyes distant beneath the hood. He's thinking of her. I still can't believe he's no simple sociopath. I'd misled myself for so long. Improperly analyzed him.

"You may be vital to her investigation. If not, your publicized safety under the Du Couteau name will earn favor from esteemed families."

"Publicized?" What did he mean, publicized? Why would any of this be publicized? He identifies the panic and outrage in my voice and eyes. I make sure he sees it. I demand an explanation.

"The game in Demacia involves social status and finances. Nobility quarrels are frequently advertised to obtain support, debilitating the opponent. Noxus revolves around information and bloodshed instead." He continues, right hand against the healing wound on his abdomen. "The bounty urges Katarina to ensure your safety. What Swain wants, she strives for the opposite. If she wins a quarrel of this magnitude, she will gain allies."

"Doesn't this indicate the awareness of Swain's coup?"

"No. All the public knows is that you're wanted by the Grand General. The Du Couteau house competitively defied a government-issued warrant, offering the same sum of money to obtain you alive."

"You're saying you want to escort me into Noxus as an object of political esteem." It's exactly what he's saying. It's what I don't want to hear.

"I'm obligated to," he says. Like some unsung hero. The man who shits on justice and honor, speaking of obligations. More irony.

Valor has remained silent. Eerily so. He doesn't agree, I can see that much. He's still tense, grip firm into the bandaged skin of my arm. It doesn't hurt. His eyes do. He knows something. Valor has pieced something together that I have yet to figure.

"I'm returning to Demacia." I say it, idle. I refuse to fall into this game. I have duties to fulfill. Mostly to myself, if any more to Demacia.

"You'll be dead by daybreak," he tells me, careless in tone. He wouldn't lose sleep if I did. I know that as a proven fact. This mock concern is strictly political in the sense that I could aid their campaign.

"I'll die in Noxus." I argue. I have been within the walls of Noxus before, countless times for countless days. Spying on Talon, eyeing Swain's meetings, stalking assassination attempts. To be a known name and target has ruined any possible chance of a stealthy return. I would be slaughtered in less than days. My body would be thrown to a gutter in mere hours. And Valor…he would be unable to follow behind me. He would give away my identity upon sight.

"She has means of protecting you."

I laugh, bitter. "What? You?"

"Something like that."

He's not laughing. I shouldn't be, either.

* * *

"You must depart immediately." Her tone is hushed, feet light upon the floor. Her hair is loose and she wears a darkness about her that is agile and slimming. Her hands are upon my shoulders, urgent and with purpose. I rouse quickly, tense at the unanticipated visit. I'm sitting up in bed, Ashe standing to the side.

"Why?" I ask, flustered at her immediate contact. The Avarosian are a touchy-feely people. They share the trait of excessive physical contact with Noxians.

"The Noxian Diplomat, Amodias. He informs me that you've a bounty on your head, matching the price of your...undignified associate." I match Talon's price? I don't know whether to gloat or not. Valor is set atop her shoulder. When I woke earlier, I realized he hadn't been at my feet as usual. He spoke to Ashe.

The sun has yet to rise. A thin veil of light from the setting moon illuminates silhouettes.

"What has he asked of you?" Talon asks from the closed doorway, arms and ankles crossed and he leans. He always leans. I can't tell if it's laziness or appearance.

What the hell is he doing here?

Ashe stands straight, turning with an calmness. Valor follows her gesture, and I assume he's informed her of everything we'd earlier discussed. She parts her lips, glancing back at me briefly before confronting Talon.

"He wants me to detain Quinn for questioning. I imagine he'd inform General Darius upon confirmation. If I do not turn you in, it may be a slight upon Noxus. It could lead to more unwanted conflict."

"You want me to leave to prevent friction between yourself and Noxus." Understandable. She thinks of her people. She is already so consumed by the idle war of her sisters.

"No. I want you to leave so that you can live."

"We should go now," Talon interrupts. I can barely see him, but I know he registers the look I give him.

"How does this end, Ashe? Tell me the truth. Any and all possibilities." I ask her, because I have to hear it. I know how this ends. It's set in my stomach like a stone. This burden has alleviated from my shoulders, only to weigh on my entire being. I'm going to die.

She thinks before she responds, stepping back as I stand from the bed. I snatch at the clothes on the floor, toes frozen against the marble. The furs and sheets I'm forced to leave seem like a utopia now that they're gone. I strip down to change, quick to do so in the ice of the air.

"One of many ways," she starts, bending down to hand me my boots. "You will be executed by Noxian law once detained. Or assassinated the moment you return to Demacia. Your forces are so infiltrated and riddled with spies, it would be within days. Either way, you will be attacked no matter the destination. You could spend your life running. You may find peace in Ionia, unless war creates a bridge to their shores once again."

"We can protect her," he says, as though he'd protected anyone in his entire life. He has his head turned away as I dress. That's laughable.

"If she sets foot in Noxus, even as a guest of the Du Couteau house, she will die." They've obviously had this discussion already. Her tone is aggressive, and her fingers have a death grip on my satchel as she gestures me to take it. Valor changes arms. He's gentle on my shoulder. He hasn't said much. It's unusual.

"Unless she dies now." He's ready to leave.

"That's uncertain." Her tone has calmed.

"I can make it work." Talon has an hand on my arm, suddenly. I despise it when he moves so swiftly out of battle. But he's leading me to the door, prepping to leave. Valor doesn't like the contact. But he doesn't do anything except quietly complain.

I'm completely lost. While I slept, they had been plotting some grand escape. Discussing what to do with me as though I were a document or contract. I only follow, because Valor has this temporary trust in Talon and I assume I must also. Temporary...everything is temporary.

Ashe is idle by the bedside, watching us go.

"Quinn." We pause, Talon's free hand wrapped over the door handle. "He arrived with bodyguards. I have yet to see them since."

"Anyone large?" I ask her, thinking it may have been the ones who injured us in the pass. The one Talon led over the edge.

"Strictly limber."

"White hair?" He asks this time, suspicious.

"Only one." She sighs, nodding briefly at Valor. "He will undoubtedly send them come morning."

"Quinn, this is your safe haven; return to us when the time is right."

"Thank you, Ashe."

"Find safety in your travels. Find peace in your hearts."

And we left. She'd had a boat waiting, prepped with supplies. The moment we get to shore, the sun begins to break past the Frostbacks. We take everything and start a sprint. Valor takes to the skies, barely visible.

"Did you ever eat?" I ask.

"It doesn't matter," he says.


	11. Worst Case Scenario

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: I'm sorry to say that updates will be taking much longer. I'm in grad school, working two jobs, and writing my novel. This one is pretty short. I hope it doesn't disappoint.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Worst Case Scenario**

* * *

There are four of them, two of which are out of sight. We waited until they separated a good distance, enough time to kill the first targets. Talon is being cautious, which is a clear indication of possible threat. He literally vanishes prior to pursing their leader, crossing blades countless times in a brief stalemate. She's quick, matching his speed. I send Valor out, blinding the second, and riddle him with arrows. He rises despite the injuries, body lean and entirely muscle. I use the closest trunk as leverage, hoisting myself up into the tree line by my heel. Val steers outwards to detract from my position. I'm afraid to use my arm. It's not numb yet. I can't afford to hesitate.

He's looking upward, injured eyes scanning the foliage. Cuts along the bridge of his nose, bleeding from talons. I take aim and send one into the back of his skull as he turns, fumbling. He's down, and I check on Talon as he gains the upper hand. I send an arrow into the back of her knee, watching her falter. She rears back, thrusting herself forward despite the injury. I send another into her hand. He embeds his blade into her throat, then dodges the blood splatter.

Talon's looking at me. His eyes are intense, immensely focused. I've never seen him so consumed in thought, save the day I'd told him I killed Du Couteau. But he's looking at me like I'd just told him a secret...at me, not through me. The expression is far too composed. As though I'd complimented him. I ask Valor what he's looking at, and the simple answer is "you".

The last two arrive, rushed at the sound of conflict. Third and fourth, both limber and decorated heavily with supplies.

The fourth removes a sword from her back, glowing and intensely massive. My chest tightens at the anticipation of a difficult conflict. As I take aim, she decapitates her supposed ally in a single movement. Swift and direct, the muscles of her arms flex obviously beneath dark fabric. She's the white haired one Talon asked Ashe about. I wouldn't know anyone who properly fit her description. Talon's calm, without concern. I assume she's not a threat.

I secure my crossbow to my side, arrows fumbling about in my carrier. I've already used a third of my ammunition. I haven't had to concern myself over arrows in years.

Talon adjusts his bandages, placing pressure on the wound. I wonder if he reopened it. I don't see any blood. She hands him the supplies she'd been carrying on her back, pulling her hood down as he takes the satchel. Definitely white hair.

Val asks me if I'm hungry. I admit that I am. He says he can hunt me small animals. I decline the gracious offer.

They're talking. I'm still lounging in the tree, having situated myself. My eyes linger over the dead man and his arrow-riddled body. I need to pick those up. We've been traveling for a day already. We even trudged through the Pass without delay. An entire twenty-sum hours before they caught up to us from Rakelstake. The diplomat's bodyguards. They were slow...either that or we were just fast. Or perhaps this unnamed ally had stalled them intentionally.

She's staring at me, cautious. Her eyes are crisp, her voice high for a woman of her obvious grit and stature. Her sword intrigues me. She conceals it yet again, hidden in a massive sheath pressed against her back. She must not have revealed it to her comrades. I imagine a weapon of such sorcery is rare to come across. She's still looking at me, speaking to Talon in the process. She holds no hostility or judgement. Her expression is very passive, even calm. Talon glances backwards, hands removing familiar garments from the satchel they'd exchanged. He actually had her bring him a new hood. Incredible.

I leap to the forest floor from my position, approaching the corpse and salvaging what wasn't broken. The one decapitated was an archer. I can take what he hasn't used, shorten them out to fit my flight groove. Valor doesn't leave his branch, prepped in case of emergency. The chill of the mountains reaches us despite the change in landscape. I shiver briefly with my arms still exposed in Avarosian hunting gear.

"It's the best option," he says.

"Will she hesitate?" They're talking about me. I can't stand it. It's like being watched.

"No."

"This is a rare opportunity."

"I'm aware."

"So you have everything figured out, Talon?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly."

"How exactly is this going to work?" I ask mid-conversation. She has an attitude with him, though I can't tell if it's playful or mocking. They're both stone-faced. I recall a lore from my childhood that taught us Noxians never smiled. I prevent a small grin from creeping over my lips. Caleb had told it a hundred times over. Never once had he considered it true. And since I've become elite, neither have I.

The first time Talon killed everyone around me, guiltless...he smiled.

He turns, setting his belongings at a distance on the floor. He grips my hand aggressively while pulling a blade from his belt, wielding it with intent. I step back, a noise of frustration and caution slipping through my teeth. I have my crossbow flush against his hip as he makes contact.

Valor has my back, squawking an insult. He's on my forearm, leering forward as though making a physical threat. He's placed himself between the blade and my wrist, wings stretched out in warning. I briefly see the distrust present in his eyes. His feathers are standing on end, agitated.

Talon loosens his grip. But he doesn't move against my readied bolt, prepared to puncture a critical joint. He's asking me to trust him. As though I ever truly would.

"Val. It's fine." I mumble it, uncertain. I'm not sure if it is fine, because even I had prepared for conflict. I'm not entirely informed, and neither is he. But we exchange a look, and he slowly pulls back, wings retracting. I lower my weapon, finger still present on the trigger. Still tense.

Talon isn't saying much. He hasn't since we left Rakelstake. In fact, we've only spoken a few words since we departed. But he adjusts my hand in his, palm up, and slices quickly over the skin. I watch him. I inspect his shoulders and anticipate any suspicious movements. I tense my wrist, prepping to pull it away. We make eye contact, and he's trying to tell me something within a brief nod. A form of non-verbal communication. But I'm bleeding, tired, and I don't want to listen. Another scar I allowed him to make on my body. Another mistake. It stings, but it doesn't hurt. I suppose I'm used to it.

He briefly angles my arm to the side, eyeing a training scar running up the underside of my forearm. It's distinct, but I rarely expose my skin. He's suspicious of it. I don't know why.

"What are you thinking?" I ask because I want to know.

He pulls off my headpiece with one hand, entirely unwelcome, and rubs it over my seeping palm. I feel my breath hitch in my throat. My hair is falling everywhere, achingly unrestrained. The metal is cold from the air.

"Hold on." He tells me as though this were some collaborative project. He removes multiple papers from within his jacket, familiar in style. He has my journals. I thought I'd left them behind. I nearly had a heart attack, having figured I'd left evidence to be found. What an ass.

He holds them against the pooling blood, then waves them about to quicken the drying process.

"I'm ignorant to anything outside the execution. Why am I a priority?" Swain should have more important leads. I shouldn't be his main focus.

"The Grand General considers you an immense threat to his position. You're the only one who knows that you didn't execute Du Couteau." The woman speaks up, entirely informed. She's not just some assassin or underling. She's part of Talon's inner circle. She knows too much to be an extension.

"Riven," he looks to her over his shoulder.

That's apparently her name. I think it fits. He raises my hand a bit in her direction, as though he anticipated her to do something about the bleeding. She rips at the hem of her current attire, pulling a fair strip of fabric away. She hands it to him, and he wraps it about my palm, still holding the journals with my headpiece tucked beneath his arm.

"So these documents that Cassiopia's spies obtained stated that I was the executioner? As well as the reason the execution was never made public?"

"They quote your reports and descriptions of the assassin. It's why you're the target," he says.

"You gave my journals to Katarina, who informed Cassiopia, who sent in the spy to obtain the documents. Why does this indicate that Du Couteau is still alive?"

"It doesn't. It just indicates that you know the truth of what occurred, even if you actually don't." Her voice truly doesn't fit her person. It's good for undercover work.

"An indication? He wants me dead over an indication?"

"One that could remove him from power, if backed by the right house. Katarina could easily use you as a prime witness. In Noxus, that's all it takes. With enough favor, she can successfully argue that a man working under Swain had stolen the identity of Du Couteau, and was willingly executed in Demacia to cover the actual murder. It will reference Darkwill, which will further point to Swain." She speaks up, serious. And I suppose that's true. Everyone knows of the suspicions regarding Darkwill. And everyone knows that Du Couteau vanished within a specific timeline.

"But we don't know if Du Couteau was actually murdered. There's no evidence. It would never hold in Demacian court." I'm arguing. I don't want to do this. My limbs are throbbing, my head is pounding, and I can't stand being forced into this situation. I want to go home.

"Swain is trying to hide the truth. It means Du Couteau is dead." He says it so calmly. As though years of his life hadn't been spent seeking the man who raised him. The father figure, I presume. But that statement has weight to it. It's truthful.

He has my bloodied headpiece in one hand, the journals in the other. And it looks like I'd truly been brutalized in a fight. Valor seems uncomfortable; he's still quiet. I don't like his silence, but I assume he doesn't like our situation. So I don't say anything or encourage him to speak.

"And this isn't Demacian court."

"Bird." I see him stiffen at the term. "Fly these to your general. Ensure he understands. Tell them a Noxian assassin struck the final blow."

"To Jarvan?" He holds up my helm and papers as I verify, gesturing for Valor to take them.

"He will undoubtedly announce your death as an honorable sacrifice, made in the process of developing an alliance with the Avarosian. The Noxian assassins stopped it. The death of Demacia's Wings will be heavily publicized to both states. I discussed it with the archer. She will have already destroyed any proof that you'd made it to Rakelstake." He's talking about Ashe. Ashe thinks this is my only way out, outside of running to Ionia. She knows I won't run. She's aware that I can't.

Valor is refusing. He's bickering, arguing, seething words of denial. The utter frustration in every shriek caw. But I extend my arm out and look at him, serious in every way. I don't want to part. I can't. He's the only one I can rely on, wholeheartedly. I fixed his wing. He saved my life. We dominated the ranks. And Talon knows all of this...which is why he's sending the only one who can be trusted. I'm inhaling to hold back glossy eyes as I adjust some feathers on his right wing. He's staring back, analyzing me. He realizes it. Val is the only one Jarvan will trust.

"Knowing that it is a Noxian assassin is critical, Val. Don't forget that." I can't do this. But I have to. I don't see myself surviving this any other way.

Talon further gestures the objects to Valor, speaking as he does. "Once we inform Katarina, Cassiopia will purposely send in the same spy to obtain the official record of her assassination. Word will reach Swain, wether your general publicizes her death or not. He will likely assume that his assassins succeeded."

There is no spite, suddenly. Only understanding. A concensus revolving around my survival. They're speaking to one another, wether they recognize it or not.

"Using a double agent to your advantage. Nicely done, Talon." She compliments him, arms crossed and back pressed firm against a lithe tree.

"This won't convince Swain," I say. I'm right. It won't.

"Temporarily, it will. It buys us a chance to sneak into Noxus." A momentary diversion, he says. Temporary.

"With word of your death, any bounty hunters or Noxian militia will halt their attempts to find you. You'd be able to walk through Noxus without scrutiny." She adjusts the massive scabbard, shifting it on her back.

"And Valor?"

"He's obvious. He must stay in Demacia, mourning." He acknowledges Val, eyes narrow. "I'll send a messenger bird to Quinn's residence frequently."

Valor nods, hesitant. He asks me if I feel safe, alone. If I can handle the situation of betrayal if it ever comes. I tell him I can. I can handle it. But either way my life is safer beside Talon than anywhere else without Valor. And he knows this is saving my life. He understands why we're doing this. It's my only option, supposedly. But I have yet to find an alternative that will prevent my untimely death. Valor is saving my life, yet again. Like always. _Show off._

It's another hour of talking before he finally departs. He rubs up against my cheek, affectionate from the fear I see is his stance. Endless reassurance. I keep saying everything will be fine. I adjust his armor before he takes wing, journals secured in his chest plate and helm in his beak. I feel naked, suddenly. Alone, and without defenses. Entirely exposed. Vulnerable, as I had the day I fought Talon without him. The same feeling the day Caleb died, only not as severe. I'm going to miss him. This all happened so quickly.

Riven preps to leave, severing the hand of her group leader before dumping the body into the nearby river. She compares the callouses to my dominant hand, saying that it's similar enough, though not exact. She leaves before nightfall, returning to the diplomat with confirmation of my death. She'd be paid as a bounty hunter and told to leave. Her identity should be secure. Worst case scenario, she kills him. It works out well.

I wonder why he cut my hand. I think it was just to hurt me. Though I suppose if Jarvan used hunting dogs to inspect the blood, the scents wouldn't match up. It was the contrary. Strictly to protect me. The man who once sought to murder me had contradicted himself in the most obvious of ironies. I've never been so valuable, but I've never felt so lost.


	12. A Conversation In The Woods

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: Kindred comes out soon. A truly fascinating champion with many intricacies.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: A Conversation In The Woods**

* * *

We start moving further southeast. Valor would have proclaimed my death by the time we reach Noxian territory. But that's days away, on foot. I doubt we have any other discreet means of travel. He hasn't changed into the clothes that Riven brought. I suppose they're for extreme circumstances, and we'd have to look anything but what we are while traveling as precaution. The time is slow and I spend much of it scribbling notes. I draw Valor from memory, careful about the damages on his beak. I glance up every few moments to ensure I'm still following at the preferred pace. I've found distance of the upmost importance.

It's hours before he finally speaks up, several feet in front of me with that satchel over his shoulder. The blade on his right arm is entirely concealed by his sleeve, discreet. He turns his head a bit to the side as he raises his voice, catching my attention.

"Why didn't you let go?" He asks so simply. As though I would be blatant in my answer. But I suppose I would be, considering the truth is within justice...and he seems to think me a true lover of the term.

"Katarina," I say. She'd have hunted me. I know my strengths and I know my limitations. The Du Couteau is one of them.

"Smart," he says.

We walk, never running. I have the map, and yet he's leading the way. The air is crisp and lacks that hollow chill. The chill which stales skin and tenses bones. I think back to the Abyss. I could have let go. I could have. Morals. Katarina. Death. I wonder why I didn't. And I remember that horrid feeling I endured when I hadn't.

"What's the real reason?" I ask. I don't know if he'd catch on. He may not know what I'm referencing. It could be a million little things surrounding the once huge initial thing. But to put it plainly, I only want to know why I'm still alive.

He pauses mid-step, head tilting a bit over his shoulder. A slight perplexity to the action. But he catches himself, and he keeps walking. Like it wasn't important. Like it wasn't history.

"You never died," he says. And it's a tone of admittance. Something he'd lied about so often. What was the real reason? The reason why he never killed me. The actual reason as to why I'm standing here.

"What?" I don't get it. I heard him, I just don't understand. The statement was apparent from any perspective. I was breathing, right here.

"I tried." He's just walking. It's surreal. Just to see him move so casually. This odd sense of unfamiliarity washes over me. I've been traveling with him, and this is the first time I relate who he is to what I thought he was. "Survival is your strong suit. Killing you became a goal."

"You had your chances several times and walked away."

"I never let you live until you dared me to kill you." I remember that day. I catch myself rubbing at the scar on my neck, fidgeting. I don't know if he noticed. It wouldn't surprise me if he did. I situate my crossbow over my shoulder. I hear my arrows still rattle on my back.

But I think about it. I remember his blade on my throat, hand on my collar bone. Immense pressure. Dead scouts. I don't remember their names. Young kids I yelled at Jarvan IV over. I yelled at Jarvan. Jarvan. What a fool.

I don't remember the names. I don't.

"Why did you?"

"Frustration."

"And when I actually fought you?" He pauses again. A slight rigidness raises his shoulders. He scans the skies and higher branches, eyes focused beyond anything close. The corner of his mouth twitches upward once, perhaps out of distaste.

"You fought distracted," he says.

"I still don't know what you mean." That phrase is old and vague. My mind was focused, it was more than evident, and yet that ferocity clouded my judgement. It made me incapable. Perhaps that's what he's referencing.

"Then you never will."

I look to the skies for Val. I'd forgotten.

I appreciate the darkness of the forest. Demacia's lights negate the stars. This world is naturally illuminated by the moon and distant suns. I find more looking up than I do forward.

He said we should rest. I'm not sure why; he may be exhausted. He refuses a fire and I agree. We sit across from one another on wide branches in the tree line, scanning the surroundings we can't regularly see. I'm placing my trust in this individual I'd once thought a monster. I'm following him loyally to save my own skin. Countless issues and yet all that plagues me is a single question: what am I doing? What's wrong with me? What kind of person stoops so low to salvage what's left of their already reduced lifespan?

Perhaps more than just a single question.

Garen or Jarvan would have gladly faced death. Their heads would have been high and their swords even higher. Yet I cower behind my own rival, reliant upon him to live. But Valor had encouraged this. He knew there was no other way. Even Ashe had developed plans behind my back; a brief truce with a Noxian assassin to save the life of a comrade. I wonder if Jarvan would understand. Or would he have me executed? Reduced to naught?

I don't see Talon eat. I know he has but I don't visually catch it. I settle on my branch and cross my legs. These trees grow larger as we crawl closer to Noxus. I rest my head back and shrug my quiver off to the side. We don't move much from our spots. As though the trees we chose were the final and only option. My crossbow rests idle in my lap, finger tense against my ready trigger. I don't trust him that much. Not yet. Not ever.

"Where'd you get that scar?" The question is out of near darkness and complete silence. I nearly jump at the intrusion set upon the noiselessness, save for the birds and insects creating suspect sound. Echoes. He's looking at me, chin high and head rested back against his designated tree. It's abruptly unsettling.

"You don't remember?" I catch myself rubbing it, fingertips circling. I regret my tone of voice, though I doubt I could have helped it.

"Not the neck. The arm." He's drinking from the canteen that's painfully Avarosian. The leatherwork and all, talking between sips. He gestures to my elbow with it, casual. I caught him looking at that scar earlier. Perhaps yesterday, though I can't see the moon to tell the time. I rub my forearm and examine the long rip of raised flesh, skin unconcealed. I have scars everywhere. It's unattractive. My eyes avoid the rounded one where the limb had been reattached. My stomach turns oddly and causes nausea.

"It's old." I flick stray hairs from my face, agitated without my headpiece. I should have butchered my hair in Raklestake. I should have asked for sleeves. I should have made Valor stay.

"I didn't leave it." What he said catches me off guard. I'm uncertain of his intention or point. I feel a tension raise my shoulders; a sixth sense puts a rigidness in my spine. He didn't leave it? Did he assume every scar on my body was inflicted by his hand?

"No...you didn't." His tone is uncomfortable. I feel nausea set in at the base of my stomach. He's become such an intense threat in only a single phrase.

I analyze my surroundings, bringing my shoulders back against the bark. I discreetly angle my crossbow further in his direction. I prep my legs to move. I could drop off the branch and catch my weight onto another. I would be out of his range of attack. It's a plausible escape plan. The rest would be evasive maneuvers. I know what he's capable of, and yet I'm unable to draw the line of trust and trepidation. Perhaps its one of my many faults; and now I'm sitting here, paranoid.

"Where did you get it from?" It's far too personal for my liking. The question, that is. My finger stiffens against the trigger, eyes unfocused in the dark. Now he's watching my arm. I can barely see the very brief reflections of light off his eyes. I doubt he's smiling.

"Sparring, " I tell him. Jarvan had apologized profusely. Needless to say he won the match. And he held my arm for hours, as though I were something fragile. Luxanna said I should find myself wounded more often. We laughed.

That was years ago. I don't recall him visiting while recovering from my removed extremity.

"With who?"

I think on my words. Would he act on a lie? They leave my mouth slow. "My general."

He mumbles something inaudible. The feeling subsides, as quick as it'd come. That unruly stiffness that instilled a silent anxiety rung about us., though lessened. The waves of tension he'd emitted are still thinning the air. Like an animal, really. Violent by nature.

I swallow my concerns and close my eyes. My lips are cracked and aching. I rub at the bridge of my nose, shoving hair from my line of sight. "Where did you get the one on your chin?"

I counter him, relaxing my arm. Earthly noises break the silence. I hear a specific species of bird in the background.

"You," he says. But that doesn't remind me of much. I've seen it countless times. I never once recall leaving it.

"I don't remember that."

"You wouldn't."

"When?"

"When you cut off my hand."

"Oh." That was the sum of the conversation. But he's still looking at me. Almost with a misplaced tenacity, persistent and unyielding. I can barely see him, and I recall removing his hand vividly. I reach my arm over my shoulder, anticipating Valor to perch on my wrist. The air is oddly frigid on my fingertips, vacant and without the anticipated contact. I don't look anywhere but at my crossbow, avoiding the realities that have suddenly forces my back against a tree.

I shift my weight and sit in silence, awaiting his call to continue.


	13. Control

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: Kindred is fucking beautiful. Like what the fuck Riot. Gorgeous. Incredible dialogue, wondrous demeanor and jests. Just fascinating. Stunning character with a representation of death in Runeterra. Apologizes for such along wait on this chapter. I have another headed your way soon. Promise.

Real quick, please check out BlueIndolence here on FF. An incredible writer with impeccable style who focuses on League of Legands as well. Fantastic in the writing game.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: Control  
**

* * *

His eyes are closed, though I doubt that indicated sleep. It's unusual to see an individual of such violent nature maintain a position of meditation for so long. As though he were average, needing to rest his body. Precautions. I remind myself to be paranoid. His leg is bent, the crook of his arm rests over his knee, fingers lax. The opposing hand is set over his most recent wound. I take note of his demeanor on scraps of paper and in the makeshift journal from Raklestake. Perhaps Valor will find us. We can exchange current events. I run out of room and begin writing on the map, front and back. He doesn't use it anyway.

The morning comes harshly and we stumble upon a small camp of nomads. They travel amid the trees as we do, avoiding roads and maps, and are unknowing of their destinations. Strings of metal jewelry adorn their clothes and extremities; they're eastern, perhaps even from Zaun. He analyzes them from our position higher up. We take the necessary precautions before dropping down and walking though for supplies, hands up as though nonthreatening. I trade Val's feathers for a decently sized roll of bread, intending to cut it in half. I attempt to be friendly despite my situation. I watch briefly as Talon lifts two fruits from the youngest's pack. It'd gone unnoticed, victim to incredibly deft fingers. Perhaps a second nature...a necessity to survive.

He hands me one, as though he'd done us a favor.

I intend to simply hold it until we reach Noxus, though my stomach protests. Talon is rolling his own in a toss, catching the object casually as he does his blades. We walk, direct and dodging the increasingly thick foliage. He watches me as though I would run. The distrust is still evident. He's waiting to see if I eat it.

I cannot claim the purpose of his incredulous mannerisms. I look towards the distant horizon above the sloped tree-line. Noxus is far off in the distance. A speck barely visible to a trained eye. Another week to journey without roads and at a fast pace. Days with the traveler's route.

"Eat." The word stuns me as though he'd pulled a knife. His bladed arm is still fully concealed. He's quickened his pace in the last hour, unyielding. He must have a deadline.

I don't respond. I would rather not. I rub at the scar up my arm. What he'd said last night sends a discomfort through my body, unsettling my stomach. I refuse.

He stopped walking. The satchel over his shoulder has a broken strap and I wonder when that had occurred. It was fine when we left Raklestake. He sets it at the base of the closest tree. I catch him glancing in my direction, hood low.

"_What_?"

"What do you think?" He stands there and crosses his arms. He gestures his head toward the fruit in my hand. I forget what it's called.

"It's stolen."

"_Eat it_."

"No."

"Then eat the bread." There it is. There's the vexation.

"I don't need it."

He takes a step towards me, hostile. His eyes indicate something far from civility. A frustration that I cannot comprehend. As though everything were expendable except food. I grip the shiv on my belt, adjusting my balance. The Avarosian leather is stiff beneath my fingers. The blade itself is still sheathed. He pauses at my paranoia, I see him thinking. He's considering his options.

I follow the very quick movement of his eyes. They flick from my face to my weapon. I feel uneasy, suddenly. Uncomfortable. As I had when he mentioned the scar.

"It's getting old." His tone of voice has me on edge. I have refused to trust him. The ferocity at the edges of his irises expose the same rage and resentment as the day he'd nearly killed me. The day he'd left the gash on my neck. The morning he had shattered my hip. The night he'd slaughtered my team. But I see it. I make the connection. I suddenly understand it. It's a similar feeling to the day you discover your purpose. As well as the day you lose it.

It's impatience. Frustration. The inability to cope with a lack of control.

The eye contact is stubborn. It lasts far too long. It's unwise to challenge him...and yet here I am. We've come full circle. We're back to the simple spats and physical violence. He's fully towards me, bladed arm exposed. Another swift step forward sends me several back. I pull up my shiv with a defensive arm and he has the audacity to grip my wrist. He won't kill me. He can't afford to. So why am I so unreasonable?

I consider pulling my crossbow. Pride.

"_Quinn_." He speaks my name as though it would familiarize us. Make things more casual. It sounds foreign, still. Misplaced. I admit it stunned me, if only momentarily. The effect is short-lived. His hand is firm, as though he were holding me steady. Scolding me. He's asking me to trust him.

After all of this…all of the blood. The breaks and silences. The pleading and the sound of choking blood. He's asking me…to trust him.

I can't find the proper words. His expression is something of agitation, with small wrinkles between his brows. As though my blatant distrust was somewhat of a hindrance. Like it impeded his goal. I pull away with obvious fervor from that aggression. I take a step back, adjusting the weight of my pack and regaining my balance. I refuse to be treated as anything less than an equal. I refuse to trust him until it is a fair exchange.

"Just get us to Noxus." I ensure my tone is harsh. I feel the heated agitation swelling in my head and chest. I attempt moving forward, yet he seems to take up far more space than what his physique physically allows. He's pretending to be a barrier. A wall. And it's _frustrating_.

"I intend to," he says.

I see his hand skim over his abdomen, and he turns away from me instantaneously. That wound from the Abyss. I'd nearly forgotten it. Perhaps because I no longer care, or perhaps because I didn't need to.

"How are you healing?" I ask him plainly and realize I'm rubbing at my wrist incessantly. Like some kind of minor obsession or habit. He picks up his bag and continues walking, ignoring me.

"Talon." He's just walking. He keeps going forward as though there was nothing to respond to. And it agitates me beyond verbal explanation. I feel that rise in my chest again, like condensed heat. The way water looks right before it begins to boil.

"Talon!" I step forward and grip at his sleeve, forcing confrontation. I shouldn't have. The response is plain, without physical violence or agitation. The cloth is soft. It's odd to see him without armor. He exhales, as though controlling himself. More control. The _lack_ of control. He's staring at me, but I can't figure why. I'm standing there with a hand on his sleeve, as though I had any right to demand his attention. It scares me when his mouth moves, but my ability to comprehend is delayed.

"Your appetite, my injuries."

He walks away from me. The sleeve is gone, the fabric leaving some kind of memory upon my fingers. My appetite...his injuries.

The moment is harsh. As though reality spoke to me in a way I could finally comprehend. I trust him, suddenly. I trust him because we are exactly the same, even within our vast differences. Murderers, hypocrites, survivors…the leftovers. Both of us trying to change what is widely known as the inevitable. He is nothing but human. He is not beyond me and I am not superior to him. He is not a savage that cannot be halted, but is instead the final result of a child, left to die in the gutters of a monstrous society. And I am not an extension of power, only what is left of two siblings with boundless aspirations.

And yet, without the similarities of time immemorial, we stand here and argue with one another, as though we are arguing with ourselves.

* * *

I hear them. They're outside, disrupting the steady sound of flowing water. The cave is cramped, it reeks of mildew and fungus. I can taste the stench on my tongue. It's a low, narrow, tunnel-like structure that lay horizontal inside a large rock. A cliff-like formation off the edge of a slope, carrying a rough stream of water from the upper regions where it normally rains. A mountainside, more or less. The flow leaks between crevices, dribbling from the ceiling, stagnant in where we sit.

My forehead reaches his shoulders when sitting back to back. He's facing the way we entered and I face the thinner entrance pointing north. I lean on him, hesitant. I hear nearby twigs, and raise my crossbow slightly higher. I can feel his breathing steady out. Rather than tensing he finds a balance. An almost eerie calm.

He keeps checking over his shoulder. As though I may allow someone to slip inside such a small gap.

"Trust me...please." I tell him under my breath...no, I regrettably plead. He has to. It has to work. It must run both ways.

I shift my weight a bit, disturbing the water. I nearly gag as I inhale. The smell is suffocating.

His shoulders tense up. I feel the change instantly. Nearly as drastic as the day I had exposed Du Couteau's death. He's rigid in my statement. I suppose it wasn't what he'd wanted to hear.

The footsteps are aggressive. Fast paced, searching. Voices, basic. They lack the silence of scouts or assassins. They have no discipline in their searching to be bounty hunters. They're soldiers. Demacian, by their accents. And they're looking.

I rub my eye, left hand still clutching my crossbow. I'd removed the excess metal and designs for maximum efficiency. It no longer shares the appearance of a bird, which I may note was often a hindrance. I miss Valor...but he is no longer here. My bad arm is throbbing a bit. Sore. The people outside speak of Ina and Ani, laughing.

There are three of them, two separated from one.

"I should kill them." He says such patiently, and yet he seems eager. His tone is hushed, hands fiddling with one of his blades. His hood is up, preventing the dribbles from the ceiling to dampen his hair. I examine his expression, and realize that he's tired. The circles that ring beneath his eyes are prominent. Like bruises.

"_No_." I won't let him. No more lives, needlessly thrown away for the sake of my own. We can evade them. We can wait them out. They'll leave.

"They've delayed us." The exhaustion is exposed by his impatience.

"Then we have no reason to hurry now."

He's silent after that. And we wait, as though they would go away due to our hushed conversation. I wish they would have, with perfect timing and consideration. And yet I hear them drawing closer, edging towards the entrance. Poorly trained, unable to see the disturbances. Reality is daunting. I oddly think of Val and his keenness towards Ashe. A wandering of thoughts due to a lack of sleep. I wonder what Talon is thinking about. I wonder if that's even his real name.

"You should sleep," I say. We must look terrible. Even beyond it. Like travelers that had been lost in the trees for days.

He refuses with incoherent mumbles. His focus is not well. And I curse under my breath as shadows peek from the light of outside. The voices are loud, calling for attention at the disturbed mud by the cliff. They're edging towards us from both entrances, as though trapping an animal. I sit up, crouching on my feet, steadying my balance with a hand on the wall. Rugged and inconsistent, moisture over textured rocks, cutting at the pads of my fingers. He leans off of me. I wonder if we're fit for battle. The map says four day's time.

I tell him to stay in his place. That I would handle the situation. It would be easy…like a meeting of diplomacy. They are Demacian, after all. A foolish thought. Plain denial. As though they would walk away, no hostilities. I see two of them, heading towards the entrance casually. And they stop when they see me. They're Garen's men. Decorated and yet without worth. Familiar and yet I cannot recognize them. I smile a bit, moving damp hair from my face, moving forward from the confines of the cave.

"We found her," one says. The older one, removing his helm as though astonished. A light face, with unattended facial hair and lively eyes. Green. "Alive."

I steady my pulse. I feel my airways constrict. They were looking for me. They think I'm alive. It's a hunch. A search party of three men is simply a hunch. Nothing more. But it's barely relieving. And I realize, as I listen to the footsteps that emerge behind me, that it was all a waste. Dragging. Mud and rocks and weight. A steady pace, calm and collected in his movements. It makes me tremble, as I look upon my brethren. I don't even look at Talon. I look anywhere but at him.

He approaches us, his left hand fisted about the long hair of a dead soldier. Blonde and soaked in blood, neck still pouring. I feel the heat escape the body. He'd dragged her here…for what reason I cannot determine. Talon looks at them, and the situation has suddenly changed. The air is heavier. Their expressions are something beyond me, as though I cannot sympathize. There's red in the mud and the sound of the stream coming down the cliff-side is deafening.

"I'm trusting you," he says. And I fully understand what he means.

He's trusting me. Trusting me to not intervene. There's a pain in my chest that has only now become apparent. I smell of dampness and stagnant water. I think of Jarvan, suddenly bitter. They draw their weapons; I only know by the sound. I cannot look at them, not without trembling. I consider the rape and pillaging of the innocence in war. The allowances made outside of Demacia due to neglect and disgust. The rumors of Garen's men being pigs and scum and murderers. Anything to justify my lack of action. Anything to make this less than what it was.

I stand there as he murders them. I stand there and wait.


	14. A Murderer

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: It's been some time. I hope you're all still with me! Love you guys. Have safe holidays and semesters.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: A Murderer  
**

* * *

I miss Valor immensely. It is as though he is forgotten, or rather, dead to my person. These days drag on as though a lifespan. They nearly mimic the time within a month. I mention the fact and Talon says that the forests so distant from the main roads tend to slow time. Never have I ventured from Noxus to the Frostbacks in such conditions, and I suppose that has something to do with it. It occurs to me that he must have traveled this journey often enough to know each direction.

I do not blame him for the murder of Demacian men. Not anymore. That anger is long gone, and the exhaustion and weight it brought me is lifted. There is no blame outside of my own negligence. And the intentions of so many Demacian militants, so unprofessionally hostile, beckoned a lack of regret. And yet I wallow in a sort of betraying grief.

Talon speaks little to me, as though we've reverted to the first day of our alliance. I've killed countless in the name of Demacian glory. Beside him, I realize, that our actions are by the same hand. That we do what we do simply because it must be done, and we cannot dwell or think that we are justified. That is where we'd truly differed. And although I do not feel humor or sport in my profession, I comfort myself in thinking that he only does in order to develop a livable identity. We are no different, not in these ways. And the number of dead does not change the weight of the guilt.

One man or many: a murderer is a murderer.

We sit back to back again; perhaps the safest position when being hunted between trees. It is fifteen minutes into our silence before I realize that he's unconscious. Deafeningly silent. I don't know what between us has evolved. Something, in these woods, has changed my perspective of what we are. Something in Ashe's words had altered my reason. Something in Tryndamere's fury had strained my loyalties. And now I question what I come from...something unheard of to my people. To doubt yourself is uncanny. To call yourself a hypocrite is nearly traitorous.

I swallow and it wakes him. He rouses quickly, consisting of a tense hand dragging down his eyes. He's tired, but he's aware of where he is. I often rouse and misplace myself, thinking of the morning light that stretches in from my window.

"You should sleep," I mention the fact because he's looking worse every day. He's refusing the inspection of his injury. I catch him, every now and again, prodding at it as though an impatient child.

"We need to go."

He stands up and I nearly tumble backwards into his legs. I wonder if there's been a single moment of simple consideration in his recorded lifespan. I imagine Valor would think not.

"How useful could you be when starved and unrested?"

"Surprisingly," he jokes dryly. I think.

Talon adjusts his pack and eyes our surroundings. His hair is growing out quickly, though I doubt it has anything on mine. I've lost count of the days since we departed from Raklestake. He needs to shave. I think it's humorous to see Talon disheveled and unkempt. I smile often when Jarvan returns from travel; nearly as bearded as his father and sporting slight undertones of grey. Those are the days in which I find him most appealing.

I think of Lux.

"How often have you made this journey?" I ask because I feel the need to fill silence. Nor do I want to stand up from my position on the ground. My legs are crossed, entirely numbed by sleep. He's adjusting the tightness of his boots, one knee sunken into moist dirt and the other supporting the weight upon his forearm.

"Often."

"Why?"

"Katarina interests herself personally with all affairs."

"Mhm." I hum something just to respond. I'm already bored by the conversation. I set my chin on crossed arms and trace the scar on my neck because it itches.

"Are you afraid?" I take a moment before I understand what he's talking about. I can barely see the territories from our elevation. The very rounded peak of Noxus is but a distant walk from where we stand. I see the glimpse of a storm on the horizon. We'd never make it before the rainfall.

"Of Noxus? No, I lived there." I confess that too openly, though I suppose he already knew. The months I'd spent behind enemy lines had jaded my perspective of crime and poverty. The power and authority is based upon strength and ability, and, in a sense, it is structured to be entirely corrupt. Though Demacia, as I compare, is hardly superior.

"Of me."

My bottom lip stings and the sudden humidity is bothersome. I look at him, surprised to find him serious. He must be asking because I'm toying with the scar. I set my hands in my lap, avoidant of any body language.

"Should I be?" I've wondered since we'd first crossed weapons, or perhaps maybe before then. Even when I truly and entirely was petrified of his very existence, I questioned. Even as I slept and saw him as the deathly antagonist of my nightmares. And even now, as we ally in order to benefit my life and his associates, I ask myself if I need to be.

Talon doesn't say anything for some time. He's taken a more patient position against the closes pine. His ankles cross and I wonder who else I've seen that does that. Not Garen. Maybe Xin. Or maybe it was simply Talon in a different situation.

"I've become afraid of Demacia. Losing Valor. Dying. There's a list. You're not on it." I make small reassurances that are more for myself than Talon. Little things that have calmed my subconscious and become true simply because I claim they are. I bite into my tongue and feel rigid scars along the flesh with my teeth. Habits of an anxious child; the remnants of many past fears that still tend to haunt me viciously. I am still afraid of insignificant things, and yet Talon no longer holds a candle to failure or loss.

Such an odd question. I hadn't anticipated it from him. I find it odd that he'd ask.

"Are you really afraid of nothing?" I ask, slightly vexed at the slightest possibility of someone that has nothing to ponder or face. He pulls down his hood, scratching at the base of his head. The wind picks up. This storm is warning us with gentle strides.

"Maybe dying," he says monotonously.

"Maybe?"

"Probably."

_Probably_. A common fear, or to some a goal. A clean death of honor and purpose; the rare kind. I think of every man and woman who has died in this war. Every life taken in the midst of a territorial bicker or conflict. My mentor, my scouts, my companions, my friends, that Mage on the battlefield, the men in the poison, the thousands of unlucky and untrained.

He's staring at me, searching for something. The same look he gave me as we fought the assassins in the Frostbacks. A duplicate of the look I received when he killed the Demacians outside of the cave. One very similar to the expression that crossed his face when I lifted him out of the Abyss.

"Then don't."


	15. Nose Bleed

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: A second update. I'm trying my best to make up for Christmas and New Years, for those of us who celebrate. The previous chapter was very brief. I hope this is a bit more satiating.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: Nose Bleed  
**

* * *

My teeth feel as though they are fragmenting. The vibrations of my jaw are drowned out by the endless downpour which idles us. My notes and journals are undoubtedly ruined. My skin is frozen and yet slick by constant moisture. My hair is soaked by harsh rainfall and sticks to my face, obscuring my vision. My breath is fully visible, as though smoke wafted from my lungs.

I can see his jaw moving, teeth chattering. He clenches it due to his stubborn nature, unwilling to show weakness to even the elements.

His hood no longer helps him; there is no hiding from raw nature. Even his cloak is likely sopping in his pack. He sits beside me, left arm pressed firmly against my own. His legs are bent casually, without the stiffness and weakness obvious in mine. We sit in dirt, roots and grass; the blanket from the base of my bag is about us as though a last resort. Desperation. I have never been so miserable in rain. I have never had to sit in a tree with Valor, struggling to avoid downpour beneath branches, enveloped in soaking, icy cloth. I have never had to depend on another human's body to prevent the feeling of freezing to death.

The little rainfalls we'd found ourselves in prior had never been so paralyzing. Valor would have seen the storm coming. We would have found sufficient shelter prior to such devastation. I was blind, entirely. I had no vision, only physical skill. The storm rolled in so quickly that the cloud cover I had used to determine rain was only the very beginnings of what I had anticipated.

The sound of falling water solidifies. Aggressive roaring from every direction, drowning out the severely loud sound of simple rain. The temperature continues to drop; I can physically feel each degree burn at the surface of my skin. Bits of ice begin to fall between branches, leaving little aches that feel like needles over my being. I see nothing but a pale sheen of water and white. I have nothing to focus on besides his shallow breathing.

I've lost feeling in my fingertips. The bitten edges of my fingernails are worn red as though raw. He seems to take notice as I put them beneath my underarms, struggling to find heat. My toes are curled painfully, digging into the leather of my boots. I can't halt the shivering. More shaking and trembling than anything; endless convulsions due to the bitterness of rigid cold. My skin seems to burn due to low temperatures, a seemingly opposite effect. It stings, chilled. My bones are cold. They ache at the air. Every gust of wind forces me further into the fetal position. I smell nothing but rain and moist dirt. Miserable...yet far better than the fungus of that cave.

We need to be close and it irks me. But it is necessary to prevent more physical suffering. Heat. What little either of our bodies can maintain. A luxury, though I've never found it so necessary prior to this instant. I've been told that freezing was like falling asleep. "As though your body tires from the ice and snow." Supposedly you drift. It is only now that I recognize those false claims. They were inconsiderate of the screaming skin and stiffened bones. This haze of pain that twists and tenses every part of my body and mind. How sore and worn my jaw is from the constant chattering. The endless, violent trembling and the deep splits in my lip and hands, all somehow soaking wet. I check for blackness on my fingertips, terrified, but it never comes. My palms are held up in front of my face, seeming to vibrate as they collect more rain in the crevices of many cuts. I feel like crying; a sort of pleading sob breaks from my throat and it goes entirely unheard by either of us.

He reaches across and envelopes my fingertips in his hand, both entirely covered in water. I cannot think beyond the cold. I only briefly recall who I'm sitting with, and in the moment I do not care. I grip at his palm; there's a very subtle warmth in his hand. Despite this, he's shaking just as much, keeping a steady gaze outwards towards the thrashing foliage which bends to the wind. I can barely hear his breaths, and his jaw is horizontal to my ear, trembling. There's nothing but rain and hail. It all continues to cloud vision and bruise skin. Sideways, at and angle, as is falls. His breathing slowly becomes inconsistent. It concerns me.

The trees provide poor shelter. I'm tensed beyond simple precaution, and more so as the weather worsens into the night. This pain is beyond lacerations or broken bones. The scar of my severed arm burns in the cold, but I would rather endure the removal of my limb a second time than endure another day of this. His blade is removed from his forearm, sitting inelegantly in mud and ice. I sit with my quiver and crossbow between my legs, pitiful, and wait.

"Talon..." I say his name and my lips feel like fire. I stumble on the "T", stuttering and finding my tongue in stiff knots. I blink, startled that my eyelids have nearly frozen shut. I wonder if he'd heard me past the endless noise.

"Quinn." He says my name without error, as though only breathless and not partially frozen. No longer "girl", I realize. Progress. He further clenches his hand about mine, as though suffering. There's a thin layer of ice that's frozen my gloves to his skin, fracturing as he shifts. I eye the slight scar about his wrist where I'd severed his hand. I recall that battle with a vividness I'd not pondered in some time.

"Are you 'right?" I struggle to ask him. My words are barely audible as I shake; the heat leaves my body like steam from my lips, billowing out as forced smoke. I clench my teeth, lips sticking together from the cold. I part them, slightly wide.

"Fine," he mumbles it.

"Breathing..." I trail off, hoping he'd understand. My thoughts don't match my ability to speak. The frustration is unbelievable. The inability is infuriating.

It hurts to move. I feel physically drained. My hair is stiffening with ice as the dampness freezes. Nightfall threatens us further, developing a staleness in the temperature, worsening. It's as though hours have past us in the feeling of days. He inhales, regulating his own intake. I see his throat move as he swallows. He exhales visible heat against frigid air...and it's shaken. A vulnerability. I feel as though I'd won something.

His teeth are clicking. The expression is serious. He's still staring out into absolutely nothing with an impenetrable focus.

I feel a brief heat on my side. And yet I do not consider it comforting against the cold. I struggle yet again, if only to open my hand and release his fingers from mine. They shake, so stiff by the cold. He retracts his hand forcefully, far more quickly than I'd anticipated. My arm seems to vibrate as I raise it to examine the sensation. Red. It slowly crawls and dyes the water as it dribbles down my arm. I have no injuries. His wound re-opened. His blood is slow. The cold brings us something to work with, if nothing else.

"You're bleeding." He doesn't say anything. He won't. He didn't the first time.

The skin of my hand is flaking off in dried bits, and the creases of my palm continue splitting as though they were seams. It shakes as I look at it, unfocused. I set it on his injury nonetheless, shifting my weight forward in his direction. The pressure may not be enough. It's never enough. Of course not.

I look at him and I see the very bleak beginnings of a smile at the edges of his mouth. It grows swiftly, breaking wide and barely exposing his teeth. To see him smile without a sort of sadistic intent is unfamiliar...it unsettles me. But I wonder what he's laughing at. What had possibly caught his eye. What, in such a moment of complete suffering and disadvantage, is humorous?

I feel heat dribble over my lips and chin. I wipe the liquid away with my wrist, suddenly offended for a reason unknown. It smears. One burden upon another. My nose pours a slow river of blood, trailing downward over my clothes. It mixes with the water covering my skin and dilutes in the rain.

Ah. Of course.

The steady laughing falls in sync with his trembling. His shoulders raise with every intake of air, masking the visual evidence of his physical suffering. We have the worst of luck, truly. Only skill. Nothing more. And it is. It's funny. It's hilarious in some dry, horrible sense that only he could truly appreciate. He's on the brink of unconsciousness and I'm being hunted by Noxians. He's suffered a grievous wound and my nose has split inside. I have been forced to fake my death, and he has been forced to live unwell within the rigid trees of Valoran.

We sit here, laughing quietly at one another, mocking each others terrible chance. My hand is red with frozen bits and he leans further towards me to adapt to the pain. The rain drowns us out, wind a subtle scream about us. And we continue, both well aware that it is everything we deserve.


	16. Not Once

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger Warning.**

A/N: I am so sorry for such a delayed update. College just keeps me so busy, and I have yet to have a break between Spring and Summer semester. I'm truly sorry, and very much exhausted. I hope this is acceptable.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: Not Once**

* * *

My skin is damp despite the hours. There's still a wetness to it without the sop of dripping clothes and mild rainfall. The winds are lacking, and the air is warm against the constant moisture. The very brief peeks of sunlight sift through the idle cloud cover. My boots are soggy; Avarosian leathers. Built for snow, not floods. Such a shame. It impedes my basic ability to walk, which is irksome. Though I believe that the absolute soreness of my body assists my current impediments. My hand is raw, my recollection of the frozen blood piecing off somewhat nauseating. My exhaustion is evident. Breathing has become difficult.

Talon leads, as always. And for the first time since our little journey began, it bothers me. We've noticeably slowed - his pace is difficult to sit behind. I can see his right arm folded at his front, likely still pressuring the damages. I stride forward to match his distance, leaning a bit around him to glance. The largest wound on my hand has clotted well. The scrapes adorning my fingers and palms sting as though poison. And we had been walking, unable to stop.

The tourniquet I had botched is failing. I can see the bleak dampness in his clothes expanding as he walks in front. We bicker for ten minutes, but my persistence weighs heavier than his stubbornness, and we rest to stop the bleeding.

His grogginess is more than apparent. I see a subtle haze across his eyes, as though jaded. As I re-dress his wound I find an infection, worsening by the moment. The raised skin, agitated and reddened by toxins, dying flesh about the splitting edges of his seeping bleed. I tighten another solid tourniquet, and finally tell him that we are being followed, but he doesn't seem surprised.

We cannot quicken our pace any more than we already have. Noxus is within a day's time. The road is within a few minutes of distance. He recommends we scout the paths from an elevated point to the East; I can see the party of Demacian military a mile behind us, West. And I catch sight of them as they make haste, approaching. Taking the road cuts the journey in half, if I'm not mistaken. They have nothing to be discreet about - not like us.

The flag they carry is distinct to their commanding officer. The massiveness of the golden sword, decorated in twists and jewels, is beyond vaguely familiar. There is a royal blue backing, highlighted by the colors of the sun. My chest seems to weigh down as I realize that it's Garen. I catch a distant sight of him upon his usual mount from my position at the near-peak of the treeline. _Garen_. Why Garen, of all people? Fiora. Vane. Shyvanna. Xin. Anyone else would have been somewhat tolerable. Yet I doubt anyone else would have been entirely willing to boast their flag in the depths of Noxian territory, on the prowl. Talon catches movement in the sky. A slight shadow passing the brief openings within the trees. The soreness of my eyes eats at my vision as they make direct contact with the light - it's Valor. I lack any doubt. He sends our shared warning, battering the wind as though frustrated. He circles about twice, gliding erratically. I miss him. My arm is lighter, and it is far less comforting. I instinctively reach my forearm towards the sky, anticipating his landing. But my chest tightens as he glides farther East, towards our destination. My heart aches at his retreat. His silhouette is beyond the trees, barely visible. I can't hear him.

For a moment, I felt somewhat whole again.

"It's Garen," I say.

Talon is looking at me, a hand solid on his wound. And there's a brief seriousness about him, far more dreadful than anything I've previously seen. The cockiness, superiority, confidence...suddenly diminished. He returns a feeling of dread to my senses. He pulls his hood up with his unoccupied hand, wiping dirt from his cheek after. His skin is still somewhat damn. I mention that he only smeared it worse. He ignores me.

"Your bird will be on the outskirts of the western territory of Xor. Upon your arrival, he will depart to Katarina. She will find and take you to Noxus."

He speaks as though he were a martyr. A sacrifice. The man who stays behind to ensure a victory. There's something wrong with that visualization. Like mismatched tracks to the soil; it leaves a bad taste. He's not a hero. Not in the least. I will not allow him to be, simply because it is in neither his nor my nature. I think of the screaming, more bloody, drowned chokes. The countless that I cannot name. The few that I can. The way my hands would tremble over death.

"You can't kill him." The truth is a pitiful sound. My own words drown out the images in my head. My boots sink further into the earth beneath my feet. I yearn to curl my toes in moist dirt.

He's glowering at me, as though I'd insulted him.

"At least not with that." I gesture at the bleeding. I suppose it was expected. We never gave his body the sustenance or rest that it needed to heal. We kept going. And it never clotted properly.

"You'll die if you go back," he says. As though he were simply reminding me of our infiltrated ranks; the deceit in our most honorable. Yes, it was very certain that I would find myself clutching blood as I rouse from sleep. And to go home with that knowledge terrifies me more than the act itself. And Jarvan. What of Jarvan? His existence plagues me; I wonder if he is still truly alive. If the man I'd so often embraced was what he claimed. If the prince I'd fought for was the true son of Lightshield. The more we walk this forest the more apparent it becomes. Perhaps Jarvan is truly dead.

"You'll _die_ if you fight Garen." I know Talon will. I swallow something awful in my throat. There's a bitter poison to the thought, for whatever reason. Something still sour.

"At the moment, only one of us is expendable."

"As if you can decided which." I don't think the words before I speak them, and it's difficult for me to look back at him after it registers. He's staring at me with something rigid. I don't think he'd anticipated something so confident to come out of my mouth.

"Do you trust me?" I see the edge of his mouth lift a bit at my expression. I can feel my nose scrunch.

"Yes," I say.

"Then head East." I look up at the distant sound of Valor. And when I look back, I stare at idle vegetation. Gone...he's infuriating.

* * *

I burst through foliage to find that he'd caught a scouting troupe too far from their commander. His blades surround him as though extensions of his very being. Organized and precise, dwindling as though at the glinting edges of his fingertips. I see those he's killed with it, my friends, my comrades, my teams. I see the past in the place of new bodies, Thero, Mava, and Felui, choking on their own blood. Fingers gripping wounds, red along the forest floor. I hear him taunt them, smirking as though he'd truly had the upper hand.

"Pathetic," he kills another with such nonchalance. Bored movements. Perhaps he did.

His injury. The _damn injury_. The falter that could cost him more blood than what he'd already lost. He stumbles as it bleeds, his stealth exposed to the Demacians about him. He thrusts his left blade into the closest, then launches a throwing knife into the second. And his hands are preoccupied and his vision is neglectful of the third. The severity of the situation escalates so quickly before my very eyes; I raise my crossbow to a man of my heritage. I aim, adjusting to the movements of battle, before I pull at the trigger in defiance of my culture. I can see it catch at Talon's cheek as it passes his shoulder, the direct tip embedding itself into an eye of hostility and intent. The man is dead within the instant, and Talon seems disrupted by the movement. His littered blades retract towards him, pulling through the three swiftly and dragging blood along the edges. They reflect light as any sword does the sun.

And he looks at me, serious. That expression again. Distinct.

His jaw clenches, and I realize that it has been so long since I've thought of Caleb.

His palm is still setting pressure on the wound. I hear more from a distance. Simple echoes that mingle through the trees. We don't exchange. We don't say anything, but I image he wants to. He removes my arrow from the man's skull, embedding his weapon into the wound. He covered my tracks, ensuring that my presence was nothing but assumption. We move, headed towards Noxus at our fastest possible pace.

It bothers me that I'm killing my own. Murdering for a man I had once despised so much that it pained me to recognize his very existence. Suffering. There is an immense pain within my chest that drives me forward. It does not immobilize me. It does not stun or ache me. Their deaths shall not be in vain. Their lives will not be worthless casualties to war. I must testify within Noxus. I must survive this ordeal – rid Demacia of the scattered infestation. I see Jarvan and Lux, my brother and Valor. I see my mother's face…and it tires me.

He senses my guilt. I know he does. It is not a weakness. It is a liberation, to grieve. A freedom of binds to the very surface of the ground, expelling what weighs and holds the strong. He is the first man to accept it. He is the first individual to understand it. Because he slows to a stop, only to hand me my arrow. His grip is firm about it for much longer than necessary. We begin a sprint at the sound of heavy pursuit. Fast-paced, intent to kill.

The sword. I catch sight of it coming down upon us. I bolt towards Talon to move him, and yet he is a step ahead of me. It collides with the soil, catching the bases and roots about us. The ground collapses left, I launch myself further forward against the stalky body of a tree. The very roots disintegrate and it angles against my weight. I stumble, rolling about rocks and branches. My crossbow is immediate lost, my shiv firmly pressed into my hip in fear of losing it. I recover and see Talon looking at me, hands about what is left of his ranged weaponry. _Garen_.

"You fought him?" I yell the question, because I had not known. And Talon shrugs, back flush against a tree. His hand is atop the seeping blood and I can't help but think of what an idiot he's turned out to be.

"Thought I killed him." A smirk – a slight humor to his tone. _Insufferable_.

"Quinn!" I hear my superior screaming my name with such infamous gusto. For what reason I cannot claim. It is loud and abrupt, as though pained. Jarvan IV sent him. I turn, his face is slightly marred with dribbling wounds. Cuts obtained from my current company. His armor provides immense sustain; Talon had pierced it directly, embedding each weapon several inches into metal, barely breaking skin. The supposedly killing blow is impressively deep. The blood stains but does not pour, and for that I am grateful. His expression is solid, eyes circling the situation. He stalks from the foliage and trees as though a predator, bold and steady. Yet his expression is of rage…it leaves anxiety in the base of my stomach.

"He'd once said you'd die with your loyalty."

He halts to speak, vision between myself and Talon. There's a hurt there, whether he admits to it or not. I take a moment to respond, uncertain of how to play this out. Both men could die in the immediate instant, and that fact is…objectively hilarious.

"Things are changing." I feel the edges of my lips quirk at all of this dreadful irony. I'm tired.

"_Common_ blood," he scoffs. A low blow to my social status, a disgusted remark of 'I told you so'. He spits red on the dirt to his side, fists twitching in agitation. His eyes are glossed, jaw firm. "What do I tell him?"

Tell him? Tell who? My stomach knots because _Jarvan_. What would I tell him? What would I confess? When? I imagine the look of my closest friend, shoulders held broad and laugh lines accompanied by the canyons of stress and rage. His skin is dark so often from the sun, and his eyes crease at the edges when he smiles. None of it motivates me. Not the once prominent kindness of his eyes, nor the firmness of his hand upon my shoulder. The compliments and flattery. The redness in his face when I'd once embraced him. It's a illusion. A trick of my own mind. Desperation...I feel sick. I can't think of anything. My limbs tremble from the chance of death or intervention, and yet I care less of Jarvan than anything I have in my life. I realize it. It surfaces bleakly like a stone drifting on shore. I _never_ loved him. Not once.

"I don't know." I don't.

"He places you higher than he should."

"I suppose he does." I feel myself laughing. I hear it loud, like it was bouncing off the walls of my mind. Yes, yes he does.

"And you repay him with _this_." I catch the blood Talon wipes away from his mouth. The clutching as he leans a bit forward, free hand again preoccupied around a blade. I'm watching him from the corner of my eye, concerned.

"You know that he's not the same, Garen." My disdain in painfully evident in my tone of voice. I feel a sinking in my stomach – it feels like Shurima. Coarse and engulfing. And I feel it weigh heavier even as Garen sets his sword to his side, something akin to dread sculpted over his features. He looks at Talon, and I feel the need to halt his aggression despite my disadvantages.

"No…he's not."

"Quinn." Talon is close, his focus entirely on the juggernaut before us. I can briefly feel his fingers tug at the left edge of my hair. A warning, I suppose. A message. But I'm doing something – I'm negotiating. Leave me alone.

"I fear that he never will be." Garen's confession stings me. "Not after this."

"Quinn, _go_." He steps in front of me, and for a moment something blinds me and I see the hypothetical red at the edges of my vision. I side-step in front of Talon despite his sudden grip on my arm. His thumb is set on my scar and I suddenly remember too much.

"Garen. Jarvan is dead."

He's silent. He's unmoving. A little too usual than I care to admit, like watching him mourn the men he'd lost in battle. He looks at me, expecting an answer. Something. I feel nauseous, the hunger in my stomach is rolling into cramps. My blood is hot, and I feet the humidity closing in around me. I taste the sweat stretching down my brow. I lean my weight to my more solid leg, head aching like the rugged edge of old swords. Unfocused, painful. My entire body in screaming.

My lips are split badly, and I lick them to dull the pain. I steady myself, beginning calmly. "I've had this image of him in my head…of how he used to be. I try to associate what he was to what returned from war, but what we've been seeing for years…that's not Jarvan. Whoever it is, it's not him. I intend to bring him home – the real Jarvan. How could I turn my back on someone I've loved for so long?" The truth...and yet a lie. A contradiction. Something unknown to me. Something _off_. I say it with agony, hands fisted against my chest and eyes watering.

The tension in the air is thick, and it worsens like dirt consuming rainfall. I feel it seething at the base of my neck, and the faintness dizzies me. The words out of my mouth feel deceptive, and yet my display instills a proud confidence at the base of my chest, near the lower regions of my lungs. I meet his gaze, and he knows it. He'd known for far too long. Those past affections, driven by desperation and a need to be more than what I was born to be. I never loved Jarvan IV. Not once.

"Even if I'm incorrect, and Jarvan IV truly does sit at the helm of Demacia's militia…would it make a difference if I never returned?"

"He would send every troupe to bring back your head out of rage. You would destroy him."

"He has Shyvanna to calm him, whether I like to admit it or not." I blink, training my gaze to the floor. My boots are still a mess. Damp. Gross.

"Even I'm to admit that common lineage is more acceptable that dragon blood." Such a bigot.

"Is that all you're willing to take into consideration?"

"Remind me why I haven't slain you where you stand."

"Katarina will tell you herself of Quinn's significance in the coupe against Swain." Talon interjects, voice strained. He steps forward to meet place, blood-stained jaw solid. His lips stretch into a sly smirk, suddenly lax. It's entirely humorless. Almost unlike him. "Or should we tell others of Katarina's significance to you?"

"I'd have no qualms in killing you for silence." His face is paled, grip about his sword only but a linger. The rumors...the rumors are _true_. Common blood, over dragon blood, over Noxian blood. And yet here we are...and it's _glorious_.

"I believe you would. Even then, Talon has extensions. Ways to spread detrimental truth beyond the grave, but that's not the point. We know that the truth of Jarvan IV lay somewhere beneath the grotesque politics of Noxus. We intend to uncover the truths of either his replacement or control, whether it involves Swain or not." I bit my tongue as I close my mouth. My arms are folded for security, hands stinging at the dampness of my clothes.

He takes a while. Jaw clamped shut, blackmail hanging over his head like death over the ill. A disturbed look in his eye, one of regret and anger. Little pricks of red remind me of my hands, and I look at Talon to see him idle...expressionless.

"How will you secure your word?" Garen speaks, and I feel my stomach life back into its proper place for only a moment.

"How would you prefer?" Talon asks, posture leaning. Garen looks upwards, eyeing Valor who'd perched himself above me to analyze the situation. I see his head twitch, wings bristled. His talons are out, prepared. And I feel what's coming. Another necessary rift to keep us apart. To keep me alive. It sinks low in my gut, aching against the cramps and hunger. How much more to keep my pulse? How much longer to maintain my breath?

"Loyalty often requires the sacrifice of the right hand. Valor will remain in Demacia, under scrutiny."

"As you see fit."

* * *

We're close to Noxus. I feel it. My eyes are teary and I wonder of the treatment Valor will receive upon returning to Demacia. I wonder if he will be restrained, or locked up. His wings clipped, like a common animal without self-awareness. No. Lux and Jarvan would never allow that. Not of another soldier. Not of Valor, who has given up more to Demacia than I can list. I want to kill Garen. Cold blood, on my hands. Yet the idea doesn't bother me. The man I'd shot with my arrow replays in my head. His charge at Talon...the unsettling drop of his body. The way the knife slipped into his skull to prevent tracking an archer.

My feet sting. My heart aches. I desire water more than I have in some time, and yet I've refused myself the privilege of what's left in the canteen. There's still that stiffness in the air, which I suppose means that it radiates from Talon. For what reason, I'm uncertain. I imagine that his bleeding is worse. I follow him closely, the paved roads much easier on his injury. He's past the point of struggling – I believe that the desperation to cease the pain has driven him to reach home. His pace is regular, his stature is improved. The tourniquet is torn to shreds from battle, but he insists that he doesn't need a new one. Says we don't have the cloth to spare, anyway.

It's silent, save for the suspect sounds of the woodland. And he speaks, only to enrage me.

"You were a concubine to your general." He declares it to me, tone sour like rot. It's dissatisfied, laced with negative expectancy, with a sort of laughing that echoes behind it. Rude. I step forward to look at him, and we stop walking. I could have heard him incorrectly, and yet I doubt it. I feel outrage. I feel cheated. I feel defiled in word alone. It's damn near instantaneous.

"How _dare_ you."

"Was it a lie?" He asks, smile a little too broad. He's _laughing_. **_Laughing_**. Not humor, but disgust. As though he should have known. As if Talon should have just expected that by looking at me. A woman? No. Katarina is a woman. A youth? A Demacian? Do I simply have the look of a whore?

"It doesn't have anything to do with you, _Talon_." I ensure there's no defensiveness.

"I want to know."

"You act like you care. Like it _bothers_ you. You once called me girl. I doubt you'd concern yourself with the affections of a child." I bring up old things that had once prodded the base of my skull, and yet he only scowls as a response, and I feel somewhat triumphant in wiping that nasty smirk from his face. I keep walking, hoping that I'd ended the conversation. Knowing that I had. He acts as though he needs to know. Like knowing will resolve something between us, as if he, by nature, doesn't trust promiscuous women. He shouldn't care. It's irrelevant. And yet he asks...and Talon has never once asked me something that lacks importance.

"Do you love him?" I halt and turn around to face him yet again. I feel the look of knitted brows and an apparent frown take over my features. Absolute disbelief and disgust written all over my face – I make sure of it. My feet are sinking into fresh mud, hands balled into bloodied, dirt-stained fists. I have fucking roots and rocks and shit in my hair. I saved his life. And he has the _audacity_ to further prod at the fire of this conversation. Why? _Why_?

"_Why_ is this so _fucking important?_"

"Do. You. Love. Him?" He grips my arm like some sort of property, teeth barred and eyes animalistic in ferocity. Vexation. I have my shiv pressed intently against his ribs, brushing just above his injury. And yet he doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch. It's perhaps the last thing on his mind. That scares me…immensely. Again…his lack of fear of death. His tendencies.

"I _never_ loved Jarvan IV. Not once." I pull away and he finally lets go. I stumble, distancing my body from my weapon, and take a moment to regain my footing. His attitude is still foul, expression agitated and creased by exhaustion. I keep my shiv easily accessible to my own hand; a disappointing mistrust has yet again damaged us…and I feel entirely betrayed.

I walk ahead of him, chest heavy, crossbow weighing me down for the first time in years.


	17. Katarina

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger Warning.**

A/N: I'm updating while I have the chance. Bless the college students who find time for weekly updates. Three summer classes and two jobs. Help me.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: Katarina  
**

* * *

I'm nervous to meet her. It is a paranoia of death, as well as the steep feeling of meeting a legend. I am but a mention and a slight smile compared to the vast tales and explanations of her poweress. Her raw, natural capabilities. And the possibility that Talon's efforts by her direction were all simply to bring me here to face a justice for the assumed wrongdoings against Du Couteau stands strong. I'd not let it bother me before now.

I ask him if I will die in Noxus. He states that he can predict nothing of the sort.

His tone does not quell my concerns.

The wind about the city-state is a stale one which I will never forget. My life in Noxus involved despising the very air I shared with its people. Portions of my training were spent resenting the feeling against my skin. Much of my youth was spent being told that is it the breath of nature herself, trying to force away the rottenness upon her soil that is Noxus. And now I stand here, entirely indifferent of it. It is wind, and never again will it be anything else.

He's cautious as we maneuver through Xor. He is slow to move forward as I follow, but his arm yields across my chest to prevent our unanticipated exposure. I hear voices emerge from the building beside us. Simple people; farmers, traders, children and wives…perceived as a threat. I can feel his pulse in his wrist against my shoulder. The sign of life beckons an anxiety in my chest, rising at the escalations of the blood flow. The sky is purple and orange. It illuminates the fields of grain at the distance, defining the ranges and water of the horizon. The humidity sticks at my neck and arms, and the wetness of the air reminds me vividly of Ionia. I blink and the exhaustion threatens my consciousness. The sore heaviness rings at the edges of my eyes, weighing down my entire body.

We move again, swiftly and without suspicion. He stumbles once, hand cradling the same place. The dust rises as he steadies himself, raising awareness of our position. I'm forced to assist him the rest of the way, shoulder aching under his weight. The country becomes modern in stature, architecture more solid. The roads are stoned, paved smoothly at the edges. He directs me behind a row of retail structures, at the edge of the marketplace. The streets are quite. Idle despite the popular hour of dawn. It's unsettling; Talon notes the emptiness of a larger district, mumbling something inaudible under his breath. We continue moving closer towards the literal face of the mountain, ducking behind and at the edge of buildings.

"This one, here." He leans off of me, hands clenching the doorframe of our supposed destination.

It is second to last against the wall to the middle-city. The sounds of the river are prominent, only a few long strides from where we stand. He knocks on the wall beside the door twice, once harsh and the second low. I exhale, watching him straighten, and then tilt back on my heels. I hadn't noticed I'd been walking on my toes. The door eases open and Riven's face exposes itself briefly through the allowed space of the deadlock. Her eyes blink once, narrow, and the door closes yet again to fully allow us entrance.

"You're late." She mentions the fact as Talon struggles to make his way inside. She looks…complacent. An average woman of the middle-class, perhaps married. A stony look, though, from what I've seen, many women in Noxus carry the same façade. Her hair barely strays from her bun, anything loose is folded within a crème bandana. She turns from a table topped with a clay carafe and hands him a ceramic cup, fingertips hesitant against the surface.

"I know," he says. I watch him take sips before he offers it over. I ensure he's swallowed before realizing it's only water. My throat nearly burns at the sensation of cool moisture. I finish the glass and set it on a thin side-table by the doorway. The walls are a shade of brown, interior paint applied to flattened, mud walls. The front door leads into a 10 x 10 room with tables and chairs, which attaches itself to a small kitchenette, complete with a Zaunite stove top and storage box. I'm reminded of my home and balcony.

"You went through the storm, didn't you?" She examines his injury as her sits down, and mumbles something about lacking necessities.

"I didn't exactly _see it_," he snaps the remark as she dampens a knit cloth with the carafe, eyes blistering with a very brief irritation.

"If you'd gone around, you would have beaten me."

"You had _horses_. And a _road_."

"Nonetheless," She hands him the cloth. He snatches it, pressuring down the bleeding. "Katarina's healer should look at that. I don't have the supplies to treat it."

"Then we should leave as soon as possible. The infection is getting worse." I mention it and Riven's eyes catch my expression; it's an unusually piercing hazel. I don't recall her eyes before.

"I concur." She looks back to Talon. I'd been holding my breath.

"It's quiet," he mentions the fact after a few moments of silence. The streets are uncharacteristically bare. There's a lack of noise or bustle inside, save for the sound of the moat behind the wall.

"A few days ago someone summoned Kalista. Now Jhin is in town. Performing."

"_Perfect_." Talon stands from his chair, wince evident. He walks towards the back room, motioning with a lax hand for me to follow. "We're leaving."

"Why don't you use the bridge, for once?" She chides him on, looking for a verbal conflict. I can't tell if they get along or not.

"I hate the bridge."

"Scared of an artist? Or is it the ghost?" She steps in front of him, walking past to press her back against the dust-riddled storage shelving, adorned with jars of fermented vegetables and sacks of grain. I move past him to pull as she pushes. The weight is ridiculous, and my hands feel grimey in the dust and age.

"Neither."

Her knees and fingertips press to the floor, hands searching. She digs her index nail into a small portion without grout and budges a loose brick. Talon lifts a blade out of his belt, wedging it between two. We remove several more to reveal a metal base, rusted at the edges. Riven uses a key tucked in the cloth about her chest before lifting the hatch; underneath lay a literal hole in the earth. Brick outlines the edges, and it barely equals three feet in circumference, if that. The smell of old river fills the room, wafting about like the stench of a carcass. Mildew, mold, and rotten sea life. I hold back my need to gag, and crave more water.

Talon immediately drops through, barely able by the width of his shoulders. I thank Riven and follow close behind, hands tense at the thick wet that rounds the entrance. When I drop, the splash startles me. I catch myself against a smiley wall before entirely slipping. The distance down was not what I had anticipated. I'm surprised there is no injury to my ankles. He seems fine, and we make our way through a brick passage, water stagnant at our feet. The stench of rot is ghastly, and I'm reminded of the cave we'd taken refuge in days before. I shake off the reminder of dead Demacians, stomach ill.

Water dribbles from the ceiling, breaking past the rotted cracks in brick. The maze is nearly impossible, a hundred different tunnels leading in every direction. There are no visible indicators, and the dark is only halted by the occasional enchanted lantern or simple fire lit within a bucket. Yet Talon leads on by memorization. I suppose he'd spent much of his life wandering the sewers, leading life in the underbelly of poverty. These are the bare bones of what lay beneath the surface city...the thin tunnels that branch off of a larger network and community, mostly uninhabited. The corners that people avoid because of the dark.

I hear voices from a distance to my left. The gnashing of a person, animalistic behaviors in tone alone. I feel for my crossbow, knuckles aching. The light from a side-passage pours into our direct route; Talon passes it by, refusing to acknowledge the snorting and gagging.

I turn to look as we make our way through, and I feel bile raise into my throat as I stop. The individual raises her head and locks eyes with mine. Bloodshot. My body is shaking, adrenaline instantaneous. It is a child, cradling the innards of a mongrel, mouth red and dripping. Ripped out hair, raw hands and elbows...dirty. The dog is wheezing, flesh brazed and ribs prominent. _Still alive_. Her knees are deep in the blood of a dying animal, expression distant and inhuman. She'd dragged it to a bucket of fire, heating her desperate handfuls over the flame. A silhouette charges from the distance, and aggressive noise funnels in as she screams at it defensively with bloody teeth.

I jump as Talon grabs my arm and begins pulling me away. Talking. I hear talking.

"They're born in the sewers. They resort to anything edible because of starvation. Our resources are dedicated to the war instead of food. This is why Swain must be removed from power."

I can hear fighting from the same tunnel as we leave it behind. Screaming. Eating. I feel nauseous.

* * *

Before the sun is set, he'd directed me through the underground and into a lower, secured tunnel. Another hatch visible about thirty feet towards the surface, one without any sort of ladder. He tells me to go first, because he's clearly struggling to scale the bricks with only hands and feet. The hatch itself is open. I wait for him at the top, pulling him up with both hands clasped around his one. He re-seals the hatch before using me as leverage.

I ask him if he's alright.

He teases that I actually care.

I'm still pissed at him, so I leave it at that.

The sunlight pours in from a thin strip of window towards the ceiling. The room is small, and entirely bare. The door looks heavy, and is entirely brass, perhaps a foot thick. Talon knocks as he did at Riven's hovel, forehead set against the wall as we wait. It opens by the hand of an armored man, face concealed in cloth and metals. They exchange a nod before we're led through another hall. Marble floors and paper walls, then finally into a secured vestibule. The crest of Du Couteau is speckled about the room on various decor and drapery, and the burgundy is a very prominent yet lesser used color. The windows are massive. I recall the day Jarvan had walked me through his home. The way the sun reflected off the chandelier.

"_Finally_." She's lazily perched on the rail of the curved stairwell. The heel of her foot taps rhythmically at the side, a hollow sound reverberating from the wood. She blows thick strands from her vision, casual written across her cheekbones.

"We were...delayed," he says. He stands up a bit straighter, attempting to better conceal his injury.

"So I was told. Hopefully that doesn't kill you." She points a nimble finger, chin resting on her wrist as she gestures to his abdomen, elbow set firmly on crossed knees. A slick smile crosses her lips, and there's something akin to playfulness in her eyes. The way Luxanna treats her brother in a battle of wits. I'm briefly reminded of Garen's disappointment.

"I recommend having a healer seal that up. Don't die. It'd be a mess." She mumbles it into the butt of her palm, uncrossing her legs and sliding easily down the banister. She steps off upon reaching the bottom, hand at her hip with some alien kind of confidence. The scar takes away from my initial perception.

"This her?" Talon hands her his pack, and her wrist tenses a bit at the unanticipated weight. Green grazes over me. I watch her eyes roll across my stature attentively, and I feel like she's searching for weaknesses. Like she's seeking a bend in my disposition.

"Who else would it be?" He snaps something hasty at her, a scoff pulling from the back of his throat. He leans on me, heavier. My shoulder is screaming at his weight.

"Another courtesan." She smiles at him, eyes rolling. I feel the heat of agitation rise into my face. I crease my brow to ensure that it is in fact frustration I portray, rather than embarrassment.

"Twice in two days?" I scoff it under my breath. I shift Talon's weight on my shoulder, steadying my position in holding him up. He makes a noise at the pressure, face creased in slight pain. Serves him right.

He smiles. I'd enjoy injuring him.

"Just...go fix that. We have a testimony to write up." She leaves through the leftmost double-doors, dark wood and at least ten feet tall, with hair swaying behind her like waves of blood. I can visualize it battle. I can see, despite her femininity and supposed look of promiscuity, that she is fierce.

"Shit."

"What?" I look over, eyes on his injury, anticipating larger flows of blood or ever more ruined skin. He slides a hand through his hair and removes his hood in the same action, scratching at the base of his skull. He sighs as though bothered, blinking away the tired.

"She's mad."


End file.
